


Legacies

by grey2510



Series: Light's Grace!verse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/M, Fallen Angel Castiel, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, Men of Letters, Men of Letters Bunker, POV Alternating, POV Bobby Singer, POV Castiel, POV Charlie Bradbury, POV Claire Novak, POV Crowley, POV Dean Winchester, POV John Winchester, POV Millie Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A witch hunt involving the Men of Letters reveals more about the Winchester family. TFW must rush to protect the Bunker and their makeshift family.</p><p>Canon-divergent after 10x14 and follows the events of the previous parts of the Light's Grace!verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Auras

**Author's Note:**

> There will definitely be more tags and characters added as the fic goes on, but I don't want to give too much away yet. Also, this story is going to have a lot of flashbacks, so if those aren't your thing, sorry! 
> 
> Oh and fair warning -- I'm usually a pretty quick updater (like, I'll write a multi-chapter fic in a week or two at most), BUT, I've been super busy, so that might be stretched out to a chapter every few days or once a week. This story has been rolling around in my head for too long, though, so I figure if I start posting it, I'll feel the pressure to just get it out.
> 
> **LG!V TIMELINE: July 2015**   
> 

_“It’s weird, huh? It’s like their life’s a big puzzle. You just keep finding pieces of it scattered all over the place.”_

_— Jody Mills, 7x12 “Time After Time”_

 

 

** 2015 **

 

“I still can’t believe you let Cas take the Impala,” Sam teases as they make their way through the hospital lobby.

“I let _you_ drive her sometimes,” Dean retorts, jabbing at the button for the elevator. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going far without me. He’s just parking her.”

“One of these days, you’re just going to have to give in to valet.”

“Nuh uh. No one’s touching Baby that I don’t know—she’s a sweet ride and I know some jackass kid would just take her for a joyride. Plus, we’re at a hospital—the valet parking’s for people with freaking emergencies. We ain't dying...for a change.”

The elevator doors open and the brothers step aside while a young couple and a nurse step out. Sam and Dean are the only ones who step in, and Sam presses the button for the fourth floor.

“So we still don’t know how all these cases are connected?” Dean asks once the doors shut.  

“No, it’s weird, man. I mean, she fits the old lady trend we found back in Illinois, but this is Missouri. And it doesn’t explain that sixty-year-old guy back in Indiana,” Sam frowns.

All four victims so far had been tortured magically—they’d found hex bags in each of the victims’ homes—but Mrs. Emmeline Dietrich, the woman they are currently on their way to visit, is the only one who survived, thanks to a neighbor busting in. Apparently, having an ex-Army Ranger next door is a sweet deal when you’re being tortured by a witch. Unfortunately, the witch had disappeared before the neighbor could apprehend (or kill) her.  

“Well, let’s see if Grandma Dietrich’s got any insight for us,” Dean shrugs as the elevator doors open.

Neither of the brothers particularly like hospitals, but Sam knows his brother hates them even more than he does; Dean’s shoulders automatically tense as they walk down the hall, hearing equipment beep and smelling disinfectant.

Room 422 is nothing special, and the old woman on the bed looks miniscule in the middle of wires and tubes. The TV is on, playing some soap, but Mrs. Dietrich’s eyes are unfocused.

“Ahem,” Sam softly clears his throat. Both brothers take out their FBI badges. “Mrs. Dietrich?”

The old woman turns to them, her mouth opening in surprise as her vision clears.

“We’re Agents—” Dean starts, but Mrs. Dietrich cuts them off.

“Dean. And Sam,” she breathes.

“Excuse me?” Dean sputters, looking in alarm at Sam, who returns the expression.

“It’s really you,” Mrs. Dietrich says. Her faded blue eyes well up. “I’m so sorry. I tried so hard to find you. I tried so hard to bring you home.”

“What the—” Dean’s eyes narrow.

“Dean.” At Sam’s tone, Dean’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click of teeth.

Sam’s mind is racing, scrambling to make sense of this situation. One glance at Dean confirms the same is happening in his brother’s head. He gives Dean a look, silently saying he’ll handle it.

“Mrs. Dietrich, we really hate to ask you this, but how do you know us? What do you mean you tried to take us home?” Sam asks while Dean’s jaw clenches.

The old woman does not respond, though her cloudy eyes brighten as Castiel enters and stands beside Dean. Immediately, Sam is vicariously relieved as some of the tension melts from his brother at Cas’ presence.

“You’re an angel,” she says, almost hopefully, to Cas.

The brothers’ eyes widen in shock, though this is not the first time someone (or something) has been able to tell that Cas is not, or was not, as human as he appears. Castiel’s eyes are full of grief and loss, however, and he steps forward and takes one of her wrinkled hands in his own.

“Not any more,” he laments softly.

Mrs. Dietrich looks between the three men, particularly between Dean and Cas. “Don’t be so sure,” she whispers.

Her eyes close and Sam thinks she might be falling asleep, but she opens them after a few long seconds. She breathes deeply, or at least tries to—the effort seems to hardly amount to anything but a wheezing inhale.  

“Mrs. Dietrich—” Dean begins, moving next to Cas.

“I just wanted you boys to be safe. Are you safe now?” she asks, her voice barely carrying over the hum of equipment and her eyes brimming with tears and hope.

Sam’s been around death long enough to know that this is the end. He looks to his brother, clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation and the fresh reminder of mortality. Dean makes no response, nor does Cas.

“Yes, we’re safe now,” Sam answers for them. Mrs. Dietrich closes her eyes with slightest hint of a nod and smile.

The monitors flatline and beep, and nurses come to shoo them out of the room. But there’s nothing they can do—Mrs. Emmeline Dietrich had a Do Not Resuscitate order, and now she is gone.

 

 

** 1938 **

 

“Mama, how come people are different colors?”

Her mother freezes on the bench next to her, then gives an apologetic smile to the other people waiting for the streetcar. Without a word, she takes her daughter by the hand and drags her away from the group.

“Emmeline, that’s not a question you ask in public. It’s impolite.”

“But why?” the eight-year-old asks with her head tilted in confusion.

Mrs. Lorraine Rousseu’s lips purse as she answers her daughter. “Because it is. And people are different colors because God said so, and it’s not up to us to ask why one of us has light hair or blue eyes or dark skin—”

“No, Mama, not _those_ colors,” Emmeline says with the exasperation of one explaining a very basic concept to someone being purposefully stupid. “I mean the ones in your head.”

“The...ones in your head?”

“Yes! Like how you and Papa and Christopher are all kinda the same color, like butter, but then Mr. Garrison’s ugly dark orange and it’s worse when he yells at his dog…”

“Emmeline, do you see...colors...in your head when you see people?” her mother asks in disbelief.

Emmeline scowls. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“No. And neither do you, do you understand?” her mother says sternly, but Emmeline can also see a hint of fear in her mother’s eyes.

“But—”

“Come. You’re not to speak of this again.”

 

And Emmeline Rousseau never did speak of it again, never thought much about it again. Most people were some shade of yellow anyway, and so it was rarely interesting to think about.

It wasn’t until she was in a high school literature class that she discovered the word “synesthesia” while reading Emily Dickinson describe a “blue — uncertain — buzz”; it wasn’t an exact match, but it made sense to Emmeline. And it wasn’t until a friend dragged her to a fortune teller her on a whim that she learned about auras. But even with labels and descriptions, she never talked about how she perceived those around her. Her mother had made it quite clear from that time when she was eight years old, and at other points in her life, that one simply did not speak of things that were not normal.

And seeing colors in her mind when she saw people certainly did not qualify as normal.

In 1958, she saw her first aura that wasn’t...human. It was black, a malignant smoky black. She told her husband she didn’t trust his coworker, that something just wasn’t right. But her husband just told her she was being silly—after all, it’s not like she could explain _why_ she said that.

But in the end, it didn’t matter anyway: her husband disappeared a week later, as did the coworker. Missing, presumed dead, the taciturn company attorney told her as he handed her a compensation check and a death certificate. She didn’t believe it—the “dead” part, that is. She would have felt it, just like she felt her mother pass last year before she even got the phone call. Her husband was gone, unreachable, but not dead. He’d run off. She—their family—hadn’t been enough, no matter what he’d said.

But she took the check and certificate anyway. Being widowed was easier to explain than being abandoned.

In 2011, Emmeline Dietrich avoided the television at all costs. It seemed like every channel was always showing an interview or news piece on Dick Roman, and the sight of him made her stomach churn. His aura, even through the screen, was black, but inky and insidious. And then there was the Winchester killing spree that terrorized the nation, but she knew the men on the screen were not the real Sam and Dean Winchester; they were just as inhuman as Dick Roman.

In 2013, scientists claimed there was a freak meteor shower, but Emmeline Dietrich knew better. Angels. It had to be angels. They had fallen. She may not have been a practicing Catholic anymore—hadn’t been since she was a child, really—but what else could explain the humanoid meteors or the plethora of white-blue auras with flicks of yellow fighting out that she saw in people in the days and months to come?  

And in 2015, she finally sees Sam and Dean again, dressed in suits and approaching her hospital bed with deference, concern, and caution.

She recognizes them immediately. But this time, she knows it is actually _them_ , not someone—some _thing_ —pretending to be them.

In her mind’s eye, Sam is a warm yellow, like sunlight filtered through leaves on a summer day. Dean...Dean is different. He is in many ways a mirror to his brother, but flicks of white-blue lace the warm yellow.

She knows that white-blue. She’s seen it before, but not like this. This white-blue isn’t taking over the yellow: it is entwined with it.

A third man, one whom she does not know, enters the room, and suddenly Dean makes sense. The third man glows a soft white, the tinges of blue seeming to fade into the yellow, like a flame. But the lingering white-blue seems to dance when the man nears Dean, the flicks of blue in Dean seeming to reach out towards the other man in recognition.

An angel. Fallen, human, but tied to the man next to him. She’s never seen two auras so synchronized. Even her own and her husbands’, both her first and her second, had never been so...bound.

Perhaps the boys would be safe after all. Finally.


	2. Family History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the 2015 parts are going to be a bit short at the beginning because I need to set up some history first, but then the main action will get rolling soon.
> 
> It's a short chapter, but I wanted to get something up for my lovely readers! Hope you enjoy. :)

** 2015 **

 

The waves of tension rolling off of the brothers, Dean in particular, make Cas grateful he is no longer an angel—the onslaught of second-hand emotions would be even more distracting than they already are. The ride back from the hospital is silent except for the occasional frustrated outburst of confusion as to “what the fucking hell is going on”, to use Dean’s phrasing. Even Sam is agitated, though Castiel suspects his interest in the matter is far more academic than emotional.

Leaning into the familiar leather of the Impala’s seats, Cas replays his brief interaction with the old woman. He wonders how she had immediately known he is—or was—an angel, since she seemed to have been human. Perhaps she was gifted with some sort of psychic abilities.

These musing carry him the rest of the way back to the motel, where the trio immediately begins digging into the pasts of all the victims, looking for a common link, though the first priority goes to figuring out just who Emmeline Dietrich really was and how she knew the brothers.

“Holy fucking shit,” Dean says as he looks up from his laptop after several tense moments of silent keyboard clicking and dissatisfied grunting from all parties. Sam and Cas both look up, brows knitted in question. “Emmeline Dietrich, née Rousseau, born 1930 in Lexington, Illinois. Widow of one Paul Dietrich, died 2013.”

“So?” Sam asks.

“Paul Dietrich wasn’t her first husband. Her first husband supposedly went missing, presumed dead, in 1958 when members of an organization he was a part of all died in a fire in Normal, Illinois,” Dean says pointedly.

Clearly the year and event has some significance to the brothers that eludes Castiel; Sam’s eyes suddenly widen in shock.

“No…” the younger brother breathes.

“Yeah,” Dean huffs. “Emmeline Dietrich, formerly Emmeline Winchester, known as Millie to family and friends.”

 

** 1951 **

The first few days of a semester are always hectic, and so it’s no surprise to Millie when a somewhat flustered young man rushes into the Registrar’s Office, smoothing down his hair and trying not to look as disheveled as he obviously feels.

“Excuse me, Miss…Rousseau?” he asks politely, reading the engraved name tag on her desk. “I seem to have misplaced my schedule of courses and was wondering if you could tell me which room Professor Olson’s Comparative Eastern Philosophies is being held.”

“Of course,” she smiles, hoping to put the young man at ease. From the credenza behind her desk, she takes the master schedule of courses and flips through to the correct page. “Wheeler Hall, Room 12—the first floor lecture hall.”

“Thank you so much,” the young man says with an awkward but somewhat charming incline of his head. He leaves, and Millie goes back to filing.

 

Two weeks later, Millie slides into a seat in the back of the lecture hall just minutes before Professor Bartosz’s lecture on Egyptian history is about to begin. Too absorbed in trying to find her lipstick in her purse, she doesn’t even notice when the person next to her leans over and mutters, “And here I was thinking you were just a secretary, Miss Rousseau.”

Millie nearly jumps in her seat, but she catches her breath quickly when she recognizes her neighbor as the young man who had lost his schedule. She cocks an eyebrow at the somewhat smug smile on the man’s face—and really, “man” is nearly an exaggeration: he can’t be more than a year or two older than she.

“And what’s wrong with being ‘just a secretary?’” she hisses as Professor Bartosz enters and approaches the podium.

“Nothing,” the young man replies, backtracking slightly. “I just meant that if you are here, you are a student as well.”

“Or perhaps I just enjoy the lectures,” Millie retorts before earning a “shh” from someone behind her. She refrains from turning and giving them the evil eye, but it’s a near thing.

The young man’s mouth snaps shut in surprise and they both turn their attention to the professor. As she is not a student, merely an observer, Millie simply listens as the professor begins where he left off last week—with an overview of the reign of Ramses II—but her neighbor fills several pages of a notebook with neat handwriting. For a moment, Millie is glad she is not actually enrolled in the course—Professor Bartosz’s deep baritone is animated and engaging; she would hate to ruin the experience with the tension of having to take notes.

When the lecture ends, Millie gathers up her purse fairly quickly and leaves, but the young man catches up to her outside the building. The evening air is still warm—summer hasn’t quite released its hold—but already Millie can see a few traitorous leaves turning yellow and orange in the trees lining the walk towards the parking lot.

“I’m sorry, Miss Rousseau,” the man says as he walks alongside her, his longer stride slowing to almost a saunter to match her pace. “I feel as though we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start again?”

Millie sighs, but not unkindly, and stops; the man follows suit. He gives a crooked smile and offers a hand.

“Henry Winchester.”

Millie takes the hand and gives a firm but poised shake. “Emmeline, but everyone calls me Millie. Well, except for my mother.”

“Millie,” he says, letting the name roll over his tongue. “It suits you.”

“You can thank my older brother: Emmeline was too hard for him to pronounce when I was born, and then the name just stuck.”

“Well, Miss Millie Rousseau, I hope I get the chance to meet him and do just that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone guess who Emmeline was after Chapter 1? I'm curious.
> 
> Oh and with this chapter, the Light's Grace!verse hits the 200,000+ words mark. Holy crap. Not bad for starting this series only seven months ago!


	3. Class of '58

** 1958 **

 

“So you’re going with Josie again?” Despite Millie’s best efforts to sound casual, something in her voice gives it away and Henry looks up from his suitcase open on their bed with a frown.

“Yes,” he says slowly, pausing with a pair of black socks in his hand. “If we do well, we’ll both be promoted. You know I can’t pass up this opportunity.”

“I know,” Millie sighs and crosses her arms.

She doesn’t know much about her husband’s job beyond the fact that it’s a research organization that her father-in-law was also a part of before Arthur Winchester died of a heart attack when Henry was only nineteen. What she does know is that whenever Henry has to go on a business trip, his beautiful and feisty colleague, Josie Sands, is always assigned to the same trip. Millie doesn’t want to believe there’s anything between them, but thanks to the pitying looks of their nosy neighbor, she’s begun to have doubts, and she hates herself for it.

“Millie, what is it?” Henry asks, dropping the socks and crossing over to her. He holds her upper arms gently, his thumbs making soft circles on her skin. Her lips tighten and she tries to avoid his gaze, but Henry is looking at her with such concern that she can’t tear away. “Millie?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly it isn’t,” Henry pries. His eyes widen in understanding and hurt. “You think Josie and I…?”

“No! Well…” she huffs. She hates the wounded look on her husband’s face, hates feeling guilty and like a traitor for even suggesting her husband is unfaithful. But, the words tumble out of her in a rush. “Can you blame me? I know your work is important, and I would never begrudge you that, but you spend so much time away from me and John, and Josie is beautiful and intelligent and can actually speak with you about the work you do—”

“Millie, stop,” Henry says, and Millie is confused by the hints of amusement in his expression. “First of all, you of all people should know I have a thing for brunettes, not redheads. And second, Josie is all work and no play, which would make Henry a dull boy.”

Millie tilts her head in question. Henry continues.

“Do you remember when we first met? How you were sitting in on lectures because you _wanted_ to be there? How you told me later that you didn’t care if you had a degree because you’d rather have a job that you enjoyed but you could leave behind at the end of the day and come home to enjoy life?”

Millie nods fondly, thinking of how they had bickered amicably at first. She had been convinced that Henry looked down on her secretarial work and he had been convinced she was wasting her intelligence sitting behind a desk. Both had been right, and wrong.

“You’re my balance, Millie,” Henry explains. “I know I can become obsessed and can lose focus on what’s important—you and John. I can have the best of both with you, Millie. _You’re_ beautiful and intelligent _and_ you care so much. There’s no one else I can share my academic interests with and will bring me back to the real world when I need it. It’s you, Millie. It’s always been you. No one else.”

“I’m sorry, Henry,” Millie chokes out. She wonders when the tears formed. Henry wipes one away with his thumb.

“Don’t be. I’m sorry I gave you cause to worry.” He kisses her, carefully, as if asking permission. She grants it. Their foreheads meet and they stand there for a moment of peace until small footsteps on the creaking hallway floors outside the room disturb them.

“Dad!” John calls, and the young boy’s parents turn to find him fanning out several baseball cards haphazardly. “Look who I got!”

Henry smiles and crouches down onto one knee when his son approaches. From where she stands, Millie can’t make out the players on the cards—not that she would know who they are anyway.

“A few more Yankees for the collection, huh, son?” Henry approves and ruffles John’s hair. Millie smiles. “Hey, maybe when I get back home we’ll go to a White Sox game? What do you say?”

It’s one of Henry’s quirks that make her love him: for a man who prefers classical music and reading to popular entertainment, and who regards most sports as pointless and just an excuse for brainless jocks to get out their aggression, Henry is a passionate baseball fan. His father, who had originally lived in New York, had taught Henry everything he knows about the sport and his favorite team, the Yankees. Of course, by default of living in Illinois, Henry also follows Chicago teams.

John nods happily and exclaims, “Yes!” as Henry straightens up.

“Well, it’s a deal, then. Now remember, while I’m gone, you’re the man of the house, so you have to be good and take care of your mom, all right?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good man,” Henry says solemnly, but with a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

 

 

** 2015 **

 

It doesn’t take long for Team Free Will to put the rest of the pieces together once they discover the identity of Emmeline Dietrich: the other two women and the man were the widows and son, respectively, of men who died in the “fire” when Abaddon had used Josie Sands’ body to infiltrate and kill the Men of Letters.

“Whoever is going after the Men of Letters is going off of seriously outdated information,” Sam comments. “Why attack the relatives of people who died sixty years ago? And if they found out about Henry and Millie—and Henry wasn’t even mentioned in that news article—why not just come after us? It’s not like the Winchester name is exactly unheard of in the hunting world.”

“Beats me,” Dean sighs, the day’s tension leaving him worn out and exhausted. But, a weight settles in his gut as the implications of their discovery finally cut through the fog. His eyes snap to Cas, who is wearing the same look of horror.

“I’ll call,” Cas says, and Dean can hear the panic lacing the undertones of his voice. Sam blinks in question, but Cas is already standing up from the bed where he had been sitting with his laptop, digging his phone out of his pocket and dialing.  

“Hey, Cas. What’s up?” Dean hears through the speakers.

“Claire, listen to me. The case we’re on has something to do with the Men of Letters. We don’t know if they know about you or the bunker yet, but you could be in danger,” Cas explains hurriedly. But not hurriedly enough for Dean. He signals to Cas, who hands the phone to Dean. Dean hits the speaker button.

“Claire, look, the bunker’s probably the safest place in the world, but if they’re coming for the bunker, I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

“I can defend myself,” Claire retorts. “And the bunker’s got everything—we can’t lose it!”

“We can and we will if it comes down to it. These are bad motherfuckers and you’re not taking ‘em alone.” Dean hates himself for what he’s about to say next. Cas takes one look at him and slips his fingers into Dean’s unoccupied hand. “Pack a bag and I want you to head to Jody’s.”

 _“If anything happens, you take Sammy and you go to Bobby’s.”_ Head to Sioux Falls when shit hits the fan. Winchester Parenting 101. Dean clenches his jaw. Despite his best efforts, he’s turning into his dad all over again.

“Fine,” Claire replies. “I’ll call you when I get there. I still think this is stupid, though. I’m not useless.”

“I never said you were, kid,” Dean sighs heavily.

“Claire, you need to do this.” Cas’ voice is taut and Claire is quite for a moment.

“Ok,” she agrees, far more subdued.

“We’ll call Jody and tell her you’re coming,” Sam chimes in.

They hang up, and suddenly all of the weariness Dean was feeling before is gone. He’s back in hunt mode: they have a witch to find, a home to defend, and most importantly, a teenage girl to protect. He can rest when he’s dead (again).

“All right,” Dean begins, his brain kicking into high gear. “If the witch is going off of the 1958 article, they probably don’t know where the bunker is yet. Henry didn’t even know and he’s the one who walked away with the freaking key.”

“Perhaps they’re searching for something else having to do with the Men of Letters,” Cas posits. “They were, after all, involved in many things.”

“Or maybe they’re trying to draw us out,” Sam suggests. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone has tried to get at us by going through others.”

“Like fucking Rowena,” Dean spits, thinking of her botched kidnapping attempt on Claire. “Ok, so we got a list of possibilities but we got nothing solid to go on. The only lead we have around here is Millie, so before we pack up and hightail it back to Kansas, I say we check out her place. Make sure there’s nothing there that the witch missed.”

“FBI or next of kin?” Sam asks. Dean pauses. Both sides have their merits, although it’s strange to think they could interview witnesses _without_ using aliases.

“FBI,” Dean says after a minute. “If this bitch is going after anyone who’s related to the Men of Letters Class of ‘58 and we tell the neighbors our names, they might get dragged into this.”

Sam nods and stands up, taking his suit jacket from the back of his chair and heading out to the parking lot.

“Dean,” Cas says, pulling at his arm as Dean tried to follow his brother.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, turning to Cas.

Cas doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. A thousand emotions war on his partner’s face, and Dean is once again taken aback by just how expressive and human the ex-angel has become. Right now, Dean can make out fears for Claire and concern for Dean projecting the loudest from those blue eyes.

“I know,” Dean nods quietly. He’s glad doesn’t have to say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's why John hated the Yankees (10x09).


	4. Neighbors

** 2015 **

 

The blue ranch the Impala pulls up to looks well cared for: the paint is fresh, the lawn is neatly mowed, and the flower beds are small but vibrant despite the heat wave that has rolled through Missouri in the past week. As they approach the door, Cas watches as Dean surreptitiously snatches a lingering piece of yellow police tape stuck to the doorjamb; according to the police reports, the scene had been already documented and cleared by yesterday.

The living room looks relatively undisturbed, though Cas suspects that if Millie Dietrich were still alive and in her home, she would not have left a half-empty mug of tea on her coffee table for so long. Through the doorframe to the right, he can see an overturned chair in the kitchen. The brothers notice it, too, and they begin to move in that direction when a sound from down the hall to their left gives them pause. Without a word, they each draw their guns and move into tactical positions, Dean taking point, with Cas covering him. At a nod, Sam adopts the position of rear-guard, staying in the living room in case anyone approaches from behind. To be completely honest, Cas still prefers his angel blade to the gun, but the firearm is much easier to explain for a supposed FBI agent.

The narrow hallway is hardly ideal for a fight, and so they move quietly down the hall towards the mostly-closed door at the very end. As they approach other doors, Dean and Cas make cursory sweeps, but only find a bathroom, an office/craft room, and a guest bedroom. Dean looks to Cas as they near the final door; Cas nods, gun at the ready. Dean raises his own weapon, then slams through the door, obviously hoping to startle and surprise whoever—or _what_ ever—is in there.

A female shriek of panic is quickly followed by an “oh shit!” from Dean, as the open door reveals a heavily pregnant woman holding two dresses on hangers and looking like she’s about to pass out in terror.

The two men immediately lower their weapons and rush to her, Dean getting there first, catching her under the elbow and along her back. Sam rushes in a second later, weapon drawn.

“It’s ok, Sam,” Cas says, rather unnecessarily as Sam surveys the situation and returns his gun to under his jacket.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman gasps, her dark brown eyes flicking between the clearly very imposing and terrifying men.

Dean looks helplessly to Cas as he helps the woman sit on the edge of the bed. As soon as she’s stable, Dean lets go as though he’s afraid he’ll break her. For some reason he can’t quite explain, Cas moves forward and puts what he hopes is a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her breathing calms for a moment and she looks up at him gratefully.

“We’re, uh, with the FBI,” Dean manages, finally regaining some of his calm. They each take their badges out to show her. Unfortunately, this does little to reassure the woman.

“FBI?! They said I could come in here, that it wasn’t a crime scene anymore, and I don’t know anything, and…” she babbles.

“Ma’am,” Sam breaks in, immediately going into what Dean has derisively called his “witness therapy” tone. “You’re not in trouble. Could you tell us who you are and why you are here?”

Brushing a lock of black hair from her eyes, the woman turns to Cas, answering him instead of Sam. “My name’s Min-ji. Min-ji Quintin. I’m Millie’s neighbor. My husband’s the one who found her.” Her lower lip quivers and she absently rubs her belly.

“Are you all right?” Cas inquires gently.

“Yes, I think so,” Min-ji replies. “I, um, was here looking for a dress. For Millie. For her...for her funeral. She doesn’t have any family around. We were kind of her family.”

Behind him, Cas can almost feel the sag in the brothers’ shoulders. Min-ji’s hand is still on her stomach and she winces slightly.

“Do you need anything?” Dean asks, always ready to take the route that requires a clear action. “Water? Doctor?”

“No, I’m fine. He’s a kicker, that’s all,” Min-ji explains, and despite the woman’s fears in the moment, it’s impossible not to hear the fond, maternal undertones in her voice. “Actually, can I go back to my house? It’s hard being here any longer than I have to, now that Millie’s…” She takes in a shuddering breath this side of a sob. “My kids and husband should be coming back any minute, too.”

True to her word, the three men and Min-ji are just crossing into the Quintins’ yard when a dark grey Jeep Grand Cherokee pulls into the driveway. As the driver’s door opens, Cas hears a deep male voice tell the children in the back seats to stay in the car. Out of the vehicle emerges a large man—he’s broad, well-muscled, and at least Dean’s height if not taller—with a short, military haircut that does little to hide its bright red-orange color.

“Whoa, sir. FBI. We’re not here to hurt you,” Dean says, pulling out his badge and holding up his other hand in a placating gesture. The badge halts the man’s approach and he sends a look over to his wife.

“Min?” he asks, his eyes quickly assessing his wife’s health and safety.

“It’s ok, Greg,” Min-ji answers. “They’re here about Millie.”

“We know you already spoke to the local police, but we were wondering if you and your wife could answer some questions for us,” Sam explains.

Greg relaxes a fraction, but the look he gives each of the three men clearly says that he won’t hesitate to act if he thinks his family is in danger. “I’m sorry, Agents. I’m just going to get the kids out of the car, if that’s ok?”

“Of course,” Cas answers.

A few minutes later, after two girls about the ages of seven and four emerge from the vehicle, are greeted by their mother, and are sent into the den to play, the adults congregate in the kitchen.

“Sorry about earlier,” Greg says to Dean, who happens to be the one closest. “Just got back a month ago. Still not quite used to civilian life, you know?”

Dean nods soberly, and Cas wishes nothing more than to be able to take Dean’s hand in his, knowing that memories of Purgatory and Hell are most likely racing through his partner’s mind. “Yeah, I do.”

“Where did you serve?” Greg asks. Dean gives him a look.

“Rather not say,” he replies curtly.

“I understand. Army Ranger,” Greg shrugs. “Can’t say much either.”

“Can I offer you anything?” Min-ji asks, looking up guiltily from the kitchen chair she’s settled herself into. “And I’m sorry, I don’t even know your names.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Sam answers. “I’m Agent Butler, this is Agent Osbourne—” he continues with a nod in Dean’s direction, who cuts him off with a thumb jerk at Cas.

“And that’s Agent Swift,” Dean says with a small smirk.

Once again, Cas regrets the time he tried to come up with aliases for the brothers, not understanding the supposed “rules” for what constitutes a “cool” alias; apparently Dean still hasn’t forgiven him for the “Spears and Aguilera” incident a few years ago. Cas just shrugs. Unlike Dean (and Claire), Cas has no shame in admitting he finds some of Ms. Swift’s music catchy and enjoyable.

They settle in around the table, though Dean looks like he is going to choose to remain standing at first. But, he seems to read the tension in Greg’s movements and thankfully chooses not make this an alpha-male moment; he sits next to Cas and subtly presses his thigh against Cas’. Cas offers him a quick eye-smile of acknowledgment.

“So, you said that you were close with Mrs. Dietrich?” Sam begins, addressing the couple.

Min-ji looks briefly to her husband before saying, “Yes, she and Paul—her husband, before he passed a couple years ago—were practically our kids’ other grandparents.”

Cas feels Dean stiffen at the mention of grandparents. Dean and Sam haven’t said much about their discovery of their family connections, but Cas knows the brothers well enough to know how troubling it is for them to find family—and family outside the life, no less—and lose it in one fell swoop. Again.  

Greg agrees and takes his wife’s hand in his on the table. “Min-ji was closer to Millie than I was. But I would sometimes help Paul around the garage when I was Stateside—just small stuff, I’m no mechanic—and I helped him and his cousin sell the place when they wanted to retire.”  

“Kyra and Shea just loved them, called them Miss Millie and Mr. Paul,” Min-ji says, her voice soft with mourning.

Greg smiles fondly. “Paul wasn’t much of a talker, kinda gruff. But he had a soft spot for our girls. Especially Kyra—still talks about how she wants to be a mechanic some day. The girls had him wrapped around their finger. ”

Min-ji gives her husband a nudge. “Big talk coming from you,” she jokes. “Millie was so excited when she found out we’re having a little boy. She used to help out whenever Greg was deployed. She never said much about it, but she said she knew what it was like raising a kid on her own.”

Cas takes the opening, trying to not reveal how much they already know about Millie’s family history. “Mrs. Dietrich had children? There were none listed as next-of-kin.”

“I’m pretty sure she has a son from her first marriage, but he was ten or eleven when she married Paul. She mentioned grandchildren once, but I think there was a falling out between her and her son. I think maybe that’s why she and Paul took such an interest in our little ones,” Min-ji explains, still speaking mostly to Cas and obviously still somewhat wary of the others, Dean especially. “Do you have children?”

The question catches Cas off-guard. He feels a hand on his knee for a brief moment, then he clears his throat to answer. “Yes. In a sense. She’s eighteen now...but her real parents are gone.”

Min-ji nods as though this response is the correct answer to a test, and she looks at the two brothers. Sam just shakes his head and says he doesn’t. Dean, however, looks to Cas, clearly asking if he should lie or admit to their relationship. It’s not something that Dean is always comfortable discussing in public yet, which sometimes frustrates Cas, but he understands and he’s at least glad that in this case, Dean considered how Cas would feel about the response. Besides, what Dean says has ramifications on their cover story. Cas inclines his head minutely, giving Dean silent permission to say whatever he thinks is best.

“Uh, same. As Agent Swift, that is,” Dean mutters.

Min-ji looks between the two of them with mild surprise. “Oh, I see.”

“And they let you work together?” Greg questions, one eyebrow raised slightly.

Cas and Dean falter for a split second, but thankfully Sam steps in. “Oh yeah, there was a whole ethics clearance they had to go through. Lucky for me, I get to be the third wheel...or neutral party. Keep them in check.”

Greg smirks a bit in sympathy at Sam.

“Right,” Dean grunts, determined to move the conversation to a new topic. “Mr. Quintin, could you tell us about the night you found Mrs. Dietrich?”

Greg’s face clouds over, and Min-ji squeezes his much larger hand in hers, her thumb running lightly over his.

“Yeah,” he exhales before his military training takes over. “I was coming home from work when I saw suspicious colored lights through the windows of Millie’s kitchen. I approached cautiously until I heard a strangled cry from inside. I entered through the side door where I found Millie on the floor choking.” The precision falters suddenly. “It was...horrible. I’d never seen anything like it. It was like green...light...was wrapped around her throat. And she was…”

“It’s ok,” Min-ji whispers, though her eyes are just as full as her husband’s.

“Can you tell us about the suspect?” Cas asks, hoping this will help Greg refocus. It works.

“Yes,” he says, his voice formal once more. “She was a white female in her thirties or forties, about five-eight or five-nine in height, brown hair, brown eyes. I tackled her and was able to subdue her for a moment, but the next thing I know, I’m half-way across the room, the kitchen is filled with smoke, and she's gone.”

“Did she say anything?” Dean asks.

“Nothing I could understand. Sounded like Latin. She said it right before she somehow bucked me off and again right before the smoke.” Greg looks down at the table, then back up at the three men across from him. He coughs lightly. “Look, I’ve been everywhere and I’ve seen some crazy shit, but this was…I don’t even know. It didn’t make _sense._ And when I tried to tell the cops…”

“They thought you were crazy?” Dean supplies. “Sir, I can assure you, you’re not crazy. And no matter what you tell us, we’ll believe you.”

Greg looks at them dubiously, then shakes his head. “No, I saw it wrong.”

“Mr. Quintin,” Cas begins, surprised even as he speaks at the lie forming easily on his tongue; perhaps he has been with the Winchesters for too long. “Often, witnesses describe things that sound like magic or are impossible, but really they are rooted in real-life events or phenomena.”

“It’s just how the brain processes the information,” Sam adds, immediately understanding Cas’ tack. “So any details you can tell us, even if they sound ridiculous, are all just pieces of the puzzle that can help us figure out what really happened.”

Greg considers them for a long moment. “All right. Like I said, Millie looked like she was being choked by light, but there was nothing there after the suspect left. And the Latin she said? It sounded...like a spell. Like she was doing witchcraft or something.”

While Greg’s gaze returns to the table in shame, Min-ji’s focuses on each of the men in turn, as if daring them to contradict or mock her husband.

“We believe you, that that’s what you saw and heard,” Dean assures them. “Obviously, we’re not sure at the moment what that all means, but this helps.”

“Thank you,” Cas adds.

Five minutes later, the three men are back outside the two houses.

“Well, witch definitely confirmed,” Dean huffs. “At least it’s not Rowena.”

“It’s sad that ‘not Rowena’ is an actual standard we have for cases,” Sam comments, running a hand through his hair. “All right, well, we still haven’t gone through Millie’s house.”

Dean nods, and they all turn back towards the ranch.


	5. Let's Make a Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I lied about this chapter being flashback heavy--I decided to put that off until next chapter.

** 2015 **

 

The hotel room is pleasant, but not as extravagant as the ones Rowena used to trick her way into. Apparently, not all witches are as decadent as his mother—or perhaps they just aren’t as competent. It pains Crowley to say it, but Rowena is a very skilled and powerful witch.

Just not powerful enough to cross him.

He taps his fingers idly on the armrest and wishes he had brought something with him to drink while he waits. Of course, he could just pop out and pop back with a bottle of Craig, but he has no wish to ruin the element of surprise of already being _in_ the room—settled, calm, and in control—as opposed to randomly appearing.  

The lock unclicks, and a woman freezes just inside the doorframe when she sees Crowley. She raises a hand and narrows her eyes, but Crowley anticipates, forcing her forward in the room and slamming the door behind her with a flick of two fingers.

“Ah ah ah,” he scolds mildly. “Is that anyway to greet your new business partner?”

“New business partner?” she says with feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Crowley stands up, rolling his eyes slightly. “Even if I weren’t the King of Hell and didn’t have minions tracking anything witch-like or having to do with the Terrible Trio, the name at the concierge is a bit obvious. Well, to anyone who’s read their Miller. Elizabeth Proctor, really?”

The witch crosses her arms. “She wasn’t a witch, but at least she wasn’t as much of a sanctimonious prick as her husband.”

The demon snorts. “Knew them, did you?” He peers at her. “Let me guess, Sarah Good?”

“Once upon a time,” the witch nods. “A hanging’s easy to fake. Just ask Mary Webster.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “Half-Hanged Mary’s still around, eh?”

“Last I heard. What do you want, Crowley?”

“Right, down to business. I like that,” Crowley concedes, one hand in his pocket as he approaches Sarah. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. Fair trade.”

“Rowena?” Sarah scoffs. “You’re just going to give me her?”

Crowley gives a short chuckle. “Let me amend: I have two things you want, one of which I am willing to give. And, what I want from you is useless if I don’t have Rowena.”

Sarah casts a critical brown eye at him. “And what is it you want from me? I plan on staying on this Earth longer than ten years, so it’s not a soul deal. Not that I think that would help you with that red-headed bitch.”

“Nothing so commonplace as a soul-deal,” he waves a hand dismissively. He’s in no rush to get her soul; if she truly is Sarah Good, as she claims, it’s been earmarked for Hell long before Salem went crazy. “But I believe we both have information that would be invaluable to the other. You, I am to understand, want the location to a certain bunker. I want information on Rowena.”

“You know the location of the Men of Letters bunker?” she doubts and juts out her chin. “So why haven’t you taken what’s there?”

A fair point, he’ll grant her that. But, if there’s one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s not to attack the Winchesters and Company head-on because of the colossal cosmic cock-up that has decided that those three morons are worth saving again, and again, and again. That being said, he has no problem if someone else takes them out (or pisses them off in the attempt). And even though he’d rather deal with the hunters than the Grand Coven, either way, one of the thorns in his side is going to get taken out if he pits them against each other.

“Yes, I do know where it is,” he confirms. “I’ve been there, but it’s warded against demons. I believe that a witch would not have the same difficulty. Besides, if there’s something I want from Moose, Squirrel, and Feathers, it’s rarely that difficult to make a deal for it—an arrangement I would assume would continue with the Grand Coven. I may be the King of Hell, but I’m a businessman at...well, not ‘heart’.”

“Moose, Squirrel, and Feathers?”

“The Winchesters and their former angel.”

 _Though I really must come up with a new name for Castiel, the featherless git. Squirrel’s Nuts? Too obvious?_ Crowley revels for a moment privately at the thought of the elder Winchester’s face if he used that new moniker for his boytoy.

Sarah paces back and forth for a few seconds, considering the offer. “What information do you want on Rowena?” she asks, pausing for a moment near the bed.

“Anything, really. Weaknesses, former contacts, anything she loves or hates. I want something I can use against her. Torture is no fun without a carrot to dangle, and obedience is much easier with a real threat.”

The witch arches a brow. “That’s it? What is it with you and Rowena?”

“I have my reasons, none of which concern you. So, shall we do business?”

 

Despite the fact that demons have no need to keep the blood in their meatsuits’ bodies pumping, the blood drains in the concierge's face as Crowley approaches the desk after concluding his business upstairs.

“Sir? Was everything satisfactory?” the demon asks nervously from behind the wide blue eyes of a young man who can’t be more than twenty-five.

“Yes, quite,” the king assures him, and the minion visibly relaxes at the rare praise for good information. “I have another job for you, however.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

Crowley gives him a sardonic, appraising look. He sighs, but refrains from flicking his eyes to the ceiling at the pathetic nature of the demons in his employ. Perhaps, in this case, the demon’s nervousness will add just the right touch of authenticity.

“Now, about my meeting with the woman upstairs—” he begins.

“Don’t worry, sir. I won’t tell anyone. Never saw you,” the demon says hurriedly, clearly eager to please and be done with the situation.

“Don’t cut me off and don’t presume to know my instructions.” The minion quails at Crowley’s tone. “In fact, I want you to remember my being here very clearly. In fact, I believe the police would be _very_ interested to know that there is a murder suspect entertaining guests in this fine establishment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literary/historical references:  
> Sarah Good was a real woman during the Salem Witch Trials who was hanged when she was 39. Elizabeth Proctor and her husband John were also accused of witchcraft; John was hanged, but Elizabeth was released. In _The Crucible_ , by Arthur Miller, John and Elizabeth are two of the main characters, while Sarah is a minor character. 
> 
> Mary Webster was also a real woman who was hanged for being a witch in Hadley, MA...except that it didn't really work and she survived after being strung up all night. Margaret Atwood wrote a wonderfully creepy poem from Mary's POV called "Half-Hanged Mary."
> 
> Stay tuned -- we're going to see some Weechesters soon. :)


	6. Childhood

** November 1983 **

 

It doesn’t matter that the man in front of her is twenty-nine years old and has two children of his own. He’s her _son_ , he will always be her child, and right now she wants nothing more than to be able to gather the broken man into her arms and tell him that everything is going to be all right like she would when he was a boy.

But, even if she couldn’t see auras and couldn’t see how her son’s once bright soul—a soul that had danced whenever Mary was near—is now quiet and dull, she knows her son, and she knows that right now, John wants space and distance.

She gives it, leaning against the cracked and peeling counter of the motel room, facing John. He sits in a rickety chair, his head dropped down and his hands dangling between his knees.

“John, when your father left, I had no one to help me. I know it’s not the same as Mary, but you need help. At least let me take the boys back with me when I leave tomorrow, just for a while until you’re back on your feet. Paul and I’ll take care of them. Or all three of you could come, we’ll find space—” Millie tries, even though she knows the attempt will be futile.

“No,” John rasps out. “I can’t…” His eyes meet hers for a brief moment before flicking to the other side of the room where Dean sits by his brother’s crib, silently playing with green army men.  

Dean’s barely spoken in the time Millie has been back in Kansas. She’s not even sure he knows she’s there or even recognizes her as his Nana. No matter how hard she tries to coax something out of the boy, all he will say to her is whether Sam needs something.

“I think Sammy’s hungry,” Dean’d said in barely a whisper yesterday afternoon. And that was it.

She’s heard him talk to his brother, not that the six-month-old can understand the stories he tells, and it breaks her heart to hear.

“I need to keep the boys with me,” John says, his eyes once more finding the ugly tile floor.

“But, you can’t stay here with them forever,” Millie presses. “And the holidays are coming up, maybe it would be good for them, get their minds off of things. I know Sam’s too young, but Dean’s almost five—”

“No,” John grunts, heaving himself off the chair and pacing around the tiny kitchen area. “It’s not safe.”

“What’s not safe?” Millie cries in exasperation. “It was a fire, John. An accident. There’s nothing you could have done.”

John rounds on her and fixes a glare. She hasn’t seen him look so angry, so feral, since he came back from deployment and a neighbor’s car backfired.

“It wasn’t the fire…” he says before snapping his jaw shut. “Never mind.”

A cry from the crib cuts through the tension, though only slightly. Millie moves towards Sam, but John is closer, and he gathers his son in his arms. Despite all that has happened in the past two weeks, she can’t help but smile a little when John’s nose wrinkles and he goes into father-mode. Without a word, Dean drops his army men and hurries over to the package of diapers by the dresser and produces a clean one.

“Thanks, son,” John says, one handedly-taking the diaper and patting Dean on the shoulder.

“Do you want me to?” Millie asks. It’s been a long day, and if she can do anything to ease her son’s pain—even if it’s something small like changing a soiled diaper—she will do it.

“I’ve got it,” John replies with determination and finality. She recognizes that tone; Henry had been the same way. With everything falling apart around him, John is taking refuge in the one small thing he _can_ fix and make better. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

 

By 6:00 am the next morning, when Millie goes to their motel room to help with the boys, they’re gone.  

 

 

** 2015 **

           

It feels weird, poking around their grandmother’s house. As much as Sam tries to tell himself it’s just another case like any other, it doesn’t really work. The ranch doesn’t have a basement, just a dirt-floored crawl-space, which thankfully cuts down the number of places to search for anything important that Millie might have been keeping in connection to Henry or the Men of Letters.

Cas and Dean have taken the attic, a task Sam was happy to avoid given the heat of the day (not moment) and the inevitable low ceilings. Sam dreads the day that Dean learns not to challenge him with rock-paper-scissors—or learns to throw something other than scissors.

This leaves Sam searching through the closets, starting with that of the main bedroom. In the back, he finds a box filled with papers, photos, newspaper clippings—jackpot. Before he can start rifling through, an old, worn Polaroid catches his eye.

“Dean!” he calls as he hears steps on the creaky drop-down stairs to the attic.

“What?” his brother calls back from up above, his voice muffled by distance and floorboards. Sam turns to find Cas in the hallway, a large cardboard box in his hands.

“C’mere!” Sam yells back up to his brother before turning to Cas. “Find anything?”

“This box says ‘HW’ on it and appears to have some of your grandfather’s things,” Cas explains, lifting the box slightly to show the bold Sharpied letters more clearly. “Dean is bringing down one that says ‘John’ on it. What did you find?”

On cue, Dean clatters down the steps, a similar box in hand. “What?” he repeats, up-nodding at Sam.

Sam holds out the Polaroid and watches as Dean’s eyes widen.

The photo is of the brothers, probably about ages ten or eleven and six or seven. They’re both dirty, but in that all-American boys on a summer day kind of way, and young Dean has his little brother in a headlock, though obviously not too tight of one, judging by the huge grins on both of their faces.

Now that Sam is holding the picture away from him, he sees a scrawled note on the back.

“'The boys are fine. Will come back when we can. Don’t look for us. —John,'” Sam reads.

Dean drops the box, somewhat gently, and snatches the Polaroid.

“That’s not Dad’s handwriting,” Dean says as he squints at the back of it. “Bobby’s, I think.”

“But why would Bobby write to Millie?” Sam wonders.

“I would imagine your father did not want to contact her,” Cas muses. “Perhaps Bobby found out and wanted to help any way he could.”

“Yeah maybe. Picture looks like his house.” Dean taps the upper corner of the photo as he shows it to Sam again; behind the boys, there are the faint shapes of rusted-out cars in stacks.

“I remember that day!” Sam smiles as he takes the Polaroid back. “We caught all those frogs!”

“Oh yeah…” Dean drawls, grinning slowly. He chuckles. “You almost pulled a Lennie, you were holding that big one so tight.”

Sam gives him a mildly surprised look and Dean scowls in response. “A Lennie?”

“You know, _Of Mice and Men_?” Dean huffs.

“Yeah, I know which Lennie you meant. Didn’t know you were kicking back with Steinback for fun.”

“What? I read,” Dean defends. Sam starts to smirk, but then catches a warning look from Cas and he schools his face as Dean continues, “Ok, so we watched the movie in one of my lit classes. The one with Malkovich and, shit, what’s his name...Lt. Dan. You know who I mean.”

“Gary Sinise?” Sam supplies.

“Yeah, him,” Dean confirms with a snap and point, then frowns. “Anyway, this still doesn’t really explain why Bobby was writing to Grandma Winchester and never told us.”

“Don’t take it out on Bobby,” Sam sighs. “We don’t know what happened. Anyway, that day was a good day. Don’t ruin it. We didn’t have many.”

 

 

** 1990 **

 

They’re coming out of the grocery store when he sees it: the blue Honda hatchback with a small dent in its rear bumper—the same blue Honda he’s seen three times this week, once parked along the road not far from the turn-off to the salvage yard.

“Why don’ you boys wait in the truck for me for a moment,” Bobby says to the brothers trailing along behind him. Dean immediately eyes Bobby warily. “Don’t get out of the car until I get back, and both of you watch out for each other, you got that?”

Dean nods with almost military acceptance, while Sam’s eyes snap up in surprise at the inclusion in the orders and responsibilities; Bobby realizes that the younger brother probably rarely hears anything beyond “listen to Dean”.

“Ok, Uncle Bobby!” Sam agrees instantly, standing up straighter, but still looking to Dean for confirmation.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says solemnly, and he leads Sam to the cab of the truck after Bobby puts the bags in the bed.

Once the boys are secure in the truck, Bobby quickly crosses the street towards the Honda where a man in his mid-thirties looks like he’s just relaxing or perhaps waiting for someone. But Bobby knows better—he’s seen surveillance, and he’s done surveillance, and he’s seen and done it better.

The man in the car starts suddenly in his seat when he sees Bobby approach in the side mirror, but before he can do anything, Bobby rips open the door and pulls the man out by the lapel.

“I ain’t gonna draw my gun in the middle of the street if I can help it,” he growls, “so don’t give me a reason to. Now walk.”

“Hey, man—” the Honda driver starts to protest, but Bobby reaches behind him and under his jacket, not actually drawing the gun, but making it clear he could at any moment.

“I said, ‘walk’.”

Bobby shoves the man towards the storefronts and down an alley between two. As soon as they’re behind a dumpster and out of sight from the road, Bobby pushes the man up against the wall, forearm nearly choking him.

“If you just want money, my wallet’s in my pocket,” the man babbles.

“Shut up and cut the crap. You ain’t some innocent bystander and I’m no damn mugger. I don’t know who sent you or what you want, but you picked the wrong paranoid bastard to try and follow.”

The man crumples against Bobby’s grip. “I’m a P.I. Looking for John Winchester and his boys.”

Wrong answer. Bobby shoves harder against the man, making his head thud against the bricks.

“I don’t know what shit John’s in or who he owes, but if you come anywhere near those boys or near me, I’ll shoot you so full of buckshot, you’ll wish I’d used a real bullet.”

“I ain’t working for a loan shark or nothing!” the man argues. “His mother hired me. I can prove it! I’m just gonna reach for my wallet, ok?”

Bobby’s eyes narrow, and he finally draws out the gun he’d threatened earlier. “Slowly. Keep your other hand up.”

Without word or protest, the P.I. slowly pulls a leather wallet from his back pocket and draws out a card with a handwritten name and phone number—“Millie Dietrich (formerly Winchester)”, it reads, with what Bobby is pretty sure is a Missouri state phone number underneath. On the back, it lists the names and ages of John, Dean, and Sam. Bobby puts the card into his own pocket before rounding on the P.I. again.

“You’re gonna go home and you’re gonna tell this Millie Dietrich that you couldn’t find John and the boys. And if you ever come looking ‘round here again—”

“Yeah, buckshot, got it,” the P.I. nods hurriedly.  

“You got a camera on you?” Bobby asks.

The P.I. looks like he’s about to deny it, but Bobby gives him a pointed look: _I wasn’t born yesterday, asshole. Don’t try me._ The other man reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a fairly high-quality but low-profile Canon. Bobby snatches it, rips open the back panel and pulls out the film, exposing as of much of the brown tape as possible.

“You got any other rolls of film, I suggest you hand ‘em over before I smash this camera of yours,” Bobby tells the P.I., almost as though he were commenting on the weather, but the undercurrent of threat is clear. The P.I. hangs his head, sighs, and digs out two black and grey film canisters and holds them out to Bobby.

“We good?” the P.I. asks, taking the camera back from the hunter and looking relieved the expensive equipment is still intact.

“Yeah. Get the hell outta here.”

 

“Everything ok, Uncle Bobby?” Dean asks quietly as soon as Bobby’s back to the truck and turning over the ignition. Bobby looks at the two boys beside him.

“Yeah,” he says heavily. “Now, when we get back, you two are helping me with chores before you do anything else, you got that?”

“Yes, sir,” “Uh huh,” Dean and Sam reply, respectively.

 

“Should be done and back by the end of the week,” John says distractedly, and Bobby can hear the plastic clunk of a microwave door and the beeps of buttons on the other end of the phone. He eyes his own stove where a pot of chili simmers quietly.

“All right. Werewolves, like you thought?”

“Yep.”

“Boys are doing good,” Bobby adds to the drawn-out pause.

“Good, good. Make sure Dean gets some time in with the shotgun.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Bobby hesitates, unsure how to address today’s excitement. If he tells John the boys were tracked here, John might never leave them at the house again. They spend enough time alone in motel rooms.

“Hey, you know a Millie Dietrich?” he adds like an afterthought.

“How the hell do you know her?” John growls.

“Heard from a contact she sent a P.I. looking for you,” Bobby explains with as much nonchalance as he can muster. “Who’d you piss off this time?”

“No one.”

“What, you break her heart with that Winchester charm?” Bobby needles, knowing anger is probably his best bet in getting any truth.

Or, John’ll just swear at him and hang up. Could go either way.

“She’s my mother, jackass,” John snarls.

Bobby ignores the anger, unwilling to let the opening escape. “Your mother, huh? She looking for the boys?”

“Yeah,” John sighs. In the background, Bobby picks up the faint creak of bedsprings.

“So how come you don’t take ‘em there? Don’t get me wrong, John, I don’t mind havin’ ‘em here, they’re good kids, but I ain’t exactly Mother Goose.”

“She’s a civilian, Bobby. She doesn’t know...The boys are safer with me.”

“But you ain’t with them.”

“Fine. They’re with you, and you’re a hunter. You know what’s out there, Bobby.”

“And when they’re at some random motel? That safer than at grandma’s?” Bobby stirs the chili, though there’s too much simmering in this kitchen, literal and metaphorical, for his liking.

“Dean can take care of himself, and Sam,” John argues, his voice ratcheting up in anger and down in tone again.

“That’s just my point, John. He’s a kid. He shouldn’t _have_ to take care of himself and Sam.”

“You saying you know better than me? I’m their father, goddammit.” John's voice is low and dangerous, but Bobby's beyond caring.

“Then start fucking acting like it,” he retorts.

Before the other man can respond, Bobby slams the receiver back into the cradle. A quiet creak in the floorboards behind him makes him spin to find Dean, eyes wide, in the doorway.

“How long you been there, kid?”

“Just the last part.” The boy bites his lower lip and Bobby instantly deflates. Last thing he wants is this kid to be scared of him. He knows firsthand what that’s like and it ain’t pretty.

“I ain’t mad at you. Or Sam.”

“Dad?”

Bobby sighs and scratches his beard. “You listen, Dean. Your father’s a good man, but he’s a stubborn sonofabitch. So am I. But that don’t change anything for you boys. You always got a place here, you read me?”

Dean nods cautiously. “Me ‘n Sam are done sweeping the garage,” he adds, as though determined to prove they’ve earned their place at the salvage yard.

“Good. Why don’t you take Sam down the creek out back? Be back by six for dinner.”

“Ok,” the boy agrees, and just for a moment, Bobby sees a flash of childish excitement in those green eyes—it’s not an expression Bobby sees often from the older brother.

 

At 6:00 on the dot, the boys troop up the path to the house, faces streaked with dirt from hasty swipes of equally dirty hands.

“We caught three frogs!” Sam proudly declares, too caught up in the moment to care that he’s holding Dean’s hand—despite his protestations earlier today that seven-year-olds are too big for such nonsense.

“You mean _I_ caught three frogs,” Dean teases. “We coulda had four if you hadn’t missed.”

“Nuh uh! I totally helped with the last one!” Sam pouts.

“Yeah, yeah, ok,” Dean allows.

They start to climb the steps, but Bobby holds out a hand.

“If you think you’re gonna muck up my house, you got another thing coming. Go hose off quick behind the garage.”

Grumbling, the boys turn to take off, but at a sudden change of heart, Bobby stops them.

“Hold up, actually. Want a picture of the conquering heroes,” he calls.

“Aw c’mon, Bobby…” Dean complains.

“Quit whining or you don’t get dinner.”

Dean’s stomach of course chooses that moment to growl loudly.

“Fine,” the boy replies morosely. Sam just grins toothily and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, adding cat-whisker streaks of dirt to his cheeks.

Bobby bites back a grin at the sight before retreating inside to dig out the old Polaroid.

“Smile, y’idjits,” he instructs gruffly when he returns.

“C’mon, Dean! You gotta smile!” Sam protests, modeling his pearly whites for his brother in case Dean didn’t know what to do.

A smile creeps onto Dean’s face. “Ok, but only if I get to do this!” he cries, grabbing Sam in a loose headlock.

_Snap. Snap._

“Well, ain’t that a beauty,” Bobby drawls when the first picture materializes on the film. “All right. Go wash up. It’s chili tonight.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, taking his brother by the arm and half-dragging him to the hose in his rush.

All things considered, it’d been a good day.

 

 

** 2015 **

 

Cas takes the photo to study for himself once the brothers have each had their turn. He smiles fondly, and Dean rolls his eyes. Sam’s pocket starts vibrating, and he steps away from the two for a moment to answer.

“Hey Jody,” he answers after reading the caller ID.

“Sam,” the sheriff greets warmly. “Ok, so here’s the thing. I don’t want you to panic, and that’s why I’m calling you instead of your brother or Cas, but I still haven’t heard from Claire and she should’ve been here about an hour ago. I called her cell, but no response. She probably just left a little later than we thought or she hit a bad cell spot—there’s a few outside town—but I wanted to let you know. You heard from her?”

“Shit,” is Sam’s only reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That was a long one. I hope the back and forth time switches weren't too much. I just couldn't separate these scenes! I think this is going to be pretty much in 2015 from here on out, now that we have the past pretty much well-accounted for.


	7. A Failure to Communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, but c'est la vie.

**2015**

 

“Hey Jody,” Dean hears Sam say, and his eyes snap up from alternating between rolling and looking fondly at Cas as the ex-angel studies the old Polaroid.

Cas’ posture tenses as well, especially when it becomes clear from Sam’s face that the sheriff isn’t just calling to tell them Claire has arrived safely in Sioux Falls.

“Shit,” Sam replies to whatever it is Jody tells him. Another pause on Sam’s end as Jody speaks, then Sam says something to the effect of “thanks” and “we’ll let you know” before hanging up. To be honest, Dean’s not paying that close attention, already having dug his phone out and started calling Claire.

“C’mon c’mon c’mon,” he mutters as the phone continues to ring. Finally, it picks up.

“What up, nerd?” a cheery voice asks. Immediately, Dean pulls the phone away from his cheek, checking the caller ID, and his brow furrows in confusion when he sees that he did, in fact, call Claire’s phone.

“Charlie?! What the hell are you doing with Claire’s phone?”

“Well, hello to you, too, Dean. She left her phone on the table and I figured I’d answer for her instead of letting it go to voicemail.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks to Cas.

 _Where’s Claire?_ Cas mouths. _With Charlie,_ he replies. Cas tilts his head in question. Dean shrugs with frustration.

“Charlie, not that I don’t love talking to you, and I’m freaking _thrilled_ to know that Claire’s apparently fine, but where the hell are you two and why isn’t Claire in Sioux Falls?”

“Oh frakking hell, guys. I thought the no communicado thing was an actual Winchester genetic trait, not something you learned—”

“Charlie,” Dean warns. “Where. Is. Claire?”

“Ummm definitely not setting up extra surveillance around the bunker like she told me you and Sam and Cas wanted us to.”

“Fuck. You’re at the bunker?” Dean catches the eye of both his brother and his partner, both of whom have eyebrows rapidly retreating to their hairlines. Before Sam can say anything, though, his FBI ringtone starts to buzz from a suit jacket pocket and he quickly digs it out as Dean's attention turns back to his own phone. “Hold on a sec, Charlie. And I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Uh, ok.”

“Agent Butler,” Sam answers, then “uh huhs” a few times before thanking the caller and hanging up. “We got a problem.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean snaps irritably. Of course, Sam just ignores Dean’s outburst, being far too familiar with his brother’s moods. Cas gives him a warning look but the grip he places on Dean’s shoulder belies his own tension. Still, the contact settles Dean somewhat and he leans slightly into the press of Cas’ hand.

“That was the local police. Said they got a witness for our suspect at a hotel in town,” Sam explains.

“What hotel?” Cas asks, his hand dropping from Dean’s shoulder. If this were in Cas’ pre-fall days, Dean would be expecting just the rustle of feathers in the wake of Cas’ departure. “If we can stop her there, we don’t have to worry about Claire or Charlie still being at the bunker.”

“Doubt it,” Sam sighs, but with a slight tinge of panic in his voice that sets Dean on edge. “Witness says she checked out a couple hours ago, but that’s not the worst part.”

“Quit burying the lead, Sam,” Dean growls.

“Charlie, you listening?” Sam asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply. “You and Claire either need to get the hell out of there ASAP or get ready for this witch to show up.”

“You sure she’s coming?” Charlie asks.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, his face pinched. “Witness says she met with some English guy—dark hair and beard, black suit, acted like he owned the place.”

“Oh fuck,” Dean curses. “Crowley knows where the bunker is. Sonofabitch sold us out!”

He’s already halfway down the hallway, having grabbed the cardboard box by his feet in one swoop—and honestly, he’s surprised he even thought to grab it—before he hears Charlie reply through the somewhat muffled speakers, “Of course he did, he’s the King of Hell!”   


	8. Just Once Unto the Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, the title is a bastardization of the line from _Henry V_.)
> 
> Also, I'm posting two chapters in one day, so make sure you didn't miss the previous chapter!

** 2015 **

 

The setting sun does little to combat the heat and humidity of the day, and Claire is thankful to get back inside the cool bunker after setting up the last of Charlie’s cameras.

After getting the call from Cas and Dean that she needed to head to Sioux Falls, Claire had immediately started to pack up a bag, despite hating the useless feeling it gave her. But after digging out a pair of Chucks from under a tangle of cords in the living room by the TV stand where Charlie had hooked up her old xbox the last time she’d visited, Claire had had a flash of inspiration.

Charlie, luckily, had only been an hour away, and had of course jumped at the chance to help out, saying she had some new ideas for security, both magical and technological, many of which Claire hadn’t really understood. Nor had she understood when Charlie had claimed that “Willow doesn’t have a monopoly on being a red-haired lesbian techno-pagan,” but Claire had long ago just learned to nod and smile whenever Charlie made a reference to something.

As Claire clatters down the steps into the War Room, she sees Charlie facing her, arms crossed over her chest, wearing an expression typically employed by disappointed and upset mothers.

“What, did I break curfew?” Claire jokes as she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

She half expects Charlie’s sentence to start off with “Young lady” or “Claire Elizabeth Novak”, but instead, Charlie just holds up Claire’s phone and says, “Dean called. Apparently you were supposed to hightail it to Sioux Falls.”

“You ratted me out? What happened to being the cool big sister?”

“First of all, kinda hard not to rat you out when it’s pretty obvious after I answered that you’re _not_ in South Dakota. Second, now we gotta get ready quick because this ticked-off witch is gonna show up on our doorstep soon, and probably before the guys make it back here. Third, I’m totally still a cool big sister, even if I’m pissed you lied to me. And fourth, the family dynamics are really messed up in this situation.”

“Sorry about that,” Claire answers, genuinely regretful. “I just didn’t want you to tell me what everyone else does—that I can’t take care of myself. I don’t wanna hunt, but this is my home now, you know? I don’t want to lose it.”

Charlie deflates. “Yeah, I get that. Still.”

“Sorry,” Claire says again.

“It’s ok.”

Charlie hands back the phone, which Claire accepts gratefully.

“What’dja mean the family dynamics are really messed up, though?” she asks as she tucks away the device. The phone doesn’t really fit into her stupidly small jeans pocket (“It’s just a racket so that girls have to buy purses, too,” one of her more cynical friends in the group home had said once), but it’ll do for now.

“Well,” Charlie replies, “Dean and Cas are like your dads, but Dean and Sam are like my brothers, so that _should_ make me like your aunt, but that’s just weird. And what’s Sam to you?”

Claire blinks, having never really thought about it before. It’s true, though, thinking of Charlie as an aunt _would_ be weird. And Sam…?

“Uncle-brother?” she says after a moment.

Charlie chuckles, “Oook, Buster Bluth. Uncle-brother, sure. Guess that fits, though.”

“Who?” Claire asks automatically, then kicks herself for forgetting her rule about Charlie and allusions.

“Dude, how do you not know…? I mean, ok, the original series came out over a decade ago, but they just did the fourth season on Netflix like two years ago, and yeah, it wasn’t as good, but still it was like all over the news…”

“Charlie…?” Claire interrupts. “How about that witch we gotta deal with?”

Charlie snaps out of her nerdologue and back into hunter mode. “Right, so we have the cameras set up, and I just put the finishing touches on the new warding spell. Oh, by the way, say that I’m invited here.”

“You’re already in the bunker.”

“I know,” Charlie sighs. “But if I leave, I can’t get back in because I don’t live here.”

“Ok,” Claire answers, still trying to catch up on what had been a very quick explanation earlier of how this new spell works. “Um, you’re always invited into the bunker, Charlie.”

“Thanks!” Charlie beams, then turns and practically bounds over to the library table where she’s set up her command station: a laptop, several Red Bulls, snacks of dubious nutritional value, and various old tomes—some of which she had brought with her, claiming to be returning them to the Men of Letters library, some of which she’d pulled from the shelves upon arrival. “Now I just have to link up with all the cameras. Then we wait for this bitch to show up, I guess.”

Claire follows her over, plunking herself down in a chair diagonal from Charlie. Restlessly, she crosses her ankles on the chair next to her, then pulls out her phone and tries to find something distracting. But, even the vast reaches of the Internet aren’t enough and she tosses the phone on the table. Charlie raises her eyebrows as she notices the app still open on Claire’s phone before the screen turns off.

“You’re on Tumblr?”

“Yeah,” Claire shrugs. “Have to blacklist a lot of tags, though. Those Carver Edlund books are super popular on there. And the fandom’s kinda scary.”

“I know,” Charlie agrees, though Claire notices that Charlie doesn’t seem quite as put-off by it. “You know, we could be, like, the gods of the _Supernatural_ fandom. We would rule Tumblr!”

“Yeah, no thanks. I already practically live in a Destiel fanfiction. I don’t need to read it or contribute to it, too,” Claire snorts. “It’s bad enough I have to see the merch when I go to work. I work at Hot Topic, just for the summer,” she adds at Charlie’s quizzical look, which quickly turns to one of complete comprehension.

The hours tick away, although Claire makes sure she responds to Cas’ texts checking in and giving updates on where they are. Charlie and Claire trade off watching the computer screen, the tension rising as the evening grows later and later. Leaning against one propped up arm, Claire feels her eyes start to glaze over, and one look to her right tells her that Charlie definitely isn’t paying any attention to whatever it is she’s streaming on her phone with her headphones plugged in.

A sudden movement in the top left corner of the computer screen makes Claire sit up, and the action springs Charlie out of her seat.

A tallish woman with dark hair has crossed the surveillance boundary they set up about a hundred feet from the bunker, and the two of them watch her move from screen to screen until she approaches the bunker door. Almost in unison, Charlie and Claire look up through the War Room towards the balcony, but the door is too thick to hear if anyone is outside, and so they return their attention to the computer screen.

The woman puts her hands out to the door, not quite touching it, then pulls them back and holds them palms up as though holding something heavy in front of her. Faintly, they can see her lips start to move on the grainy video, and Claire looks back at Charlie standing behind her.

Charlie smirks smugly at the screen. “Go ahead. Try and alohomora this, bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, Charlie's final line in this chapter is 100% why she's in this fic. It just popped into my head forever ago, and I knew I had to work her in somehow.


	9. Safe and Secure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back after the holidays! (And I hope that everyone who celebrates American Thanksgiving had a wonderful holiday last week!) 
> 
> I feel like this chapter was kind of expositiony--I hope it doesn't drag too much. Guess we'll see!

**2015**

 

By the time Baby rolls up to the bunker, Dean’s joints are stiff from driving for so long, and if he weren’t so keyed up, he might wistfully think of the days when he could—and did—drive for hours upon hours and emerge no worse for wear from behind the wheel.

Sam stretches out his long limbs as he climbs out of the backseat, while Cas shuffles out from the passenger seat, looking decidedly more relaxed than he had at the start of the trip back, thanks to frequent texts (which he had shared with the brothers) from Claire. However, despite knowing that Claire and Charlie are safe, and have even apprehended ( _“Apprehended”? Christ, I’ve been faking as a Fed for too long_ ) their witch, Dean’s nerves are still frayed.

Claire greets them at the door to the garage, a self-satisfied smirk quirking her lips up. Dean quells it to a degree with a stern look, but Claire quickly follows with an eyeroll.

“Never do that again,” Dean scolds, even though he can almost _hear_ Sam’s eyes rolling as well behind him. “I told you to get out of here, get to Jody’s, where you’d be safe.”

“Oh c’mon, Dean,” Claire huffs. “I’m not some scared kid. And Charlie and I took care of it.”

Pride and worry war in Dean’s chest, and the conflict resolves itself with a gruff “hrmph” and a subsequent “Fine. Glad you’re ok.”

The smirk returns on the teen’s face.

Dean considers all the times he took orders from his dad, no questions asked, even if he hated being told what to do all the time. Part of him wishes Claire obeyed like that, part of him loathes the idea of giving orders to her, and part of him is just too worn out to sift through all this. Too many parts with nowhere to go and nothing to do but swirl endlessly in his brain and gut.

The group moves towards the hallway, and Dean notes the protective, though quick, hand Cas puts on Claire’s shoulder.

“Uh guys?” Sam says and Dean turns, not liking the concern in his brother’s voice one bit, to find the younger Winchester just outside the door, one foot straining to step forward but unable to do so. Sam puts out a hand in front of him, but it stops abruptly and his whole arm jars back.

“Oh yeah, c’mon in, Sam,” Claire invites, and Sam nearly crashes forward into the hallway. Luckily, Cas manages to catch him by the upper arm before he stumbles completely.

“What the hell was that?” Dean exclaims.

“Threshold magic,” Cas deduces in approval, eyes bright with intrigue as they settle on sigils carefully painted inside the doorjamb, only visible from the hallway; Dean had walked right by them without even noticing. “Well done, too. Charlie’s idea?”

“Yep. She can explain it better,” Claire says with a lift of one shoulder

Dean looks between them, bewildered and annoyed, but Sam, the nerd, looks just as interested as Cas.

“Right,” Sam says, “I don’t technically live here anymore.”

The pieces finally click for Dean. “So, you can only get in if you actually live here? Otherwise you gotta play by Dracula rules and get an invite?”

Cas and Claire both nod, but only Cas actually responds. “It’s very old magic, however. I don’t believe I’ve seen it in use in centuries, though the myths and legends remain.”

“Isn’t this gonna be a huge drag for Sam? What if we’re not around to invite him in?” Dean wonders.

“I think once you’re invited, it sticks for good unless you’re banished,” Claire shrugs. “At least, I think that’s what Charlie said. I told you—she can explain it better.”

“Where is she, anyway?” Dean asks as he peers over Claire’s shoulder, almost half-expecting the bubbly red-head to suddenly appear.

“Guard duty,” Claire explains, and Dean begins to stalk towards the stairs to the dungeon. Claire grabs his sleeve. “But not down there. We weren’t sure if bringing her inside would count as an invite, even if she was in handcuffs. So we locked her up in one of those old outbuildings.”

“What’s the fucking point of having a creepy-ass dungeon if we can’t lock people up in it?” Dean grumbles, pointedly ignoring the looks of his three companions as they make their way to the back of the complex.

 

The outbuilding—a depressing, crumbling, concrete structure jutting out from behind the factory above the bunker—is so covered in spray-painted wards and sigils that Dean is instantly taken back to a certain barn in Pontiac, Illinois. One side-eye at Cas confirms that he is thinking the same.

In the back room, Charlie is slumped in an old chair, her head propped up by a fist, elbow on the armrest. The focal point of the room, however, is the giant Devil’s Trap painted in bright red on the floor with an unconscious woman in the middle, enspelled cuffs on her wrists chained up to the ceiling, but slack enough not to pull her upright. Dean suspects that the chains aren’t long enough to reach outside the circle.

The door creaks and clunks shut behind Cas, and Charlie jerks up from her seat.

“M’not ‘sleep!” she asserts.

Dean can’t help but chuckle at the bleary-eyed woman in front of him; although, she perks up instantly when she sees them, and wastes no time making the rounds for hugs and hellos. When she gets to Cas, the ex-angel is quick to compliment her new security measure around the bunker.

“I know, awesome, right?” she enthuses. “I was looking up stuff for my apartment, ‘cause, you know, lock and chain isn’t exactly weird stuff-proof—or normal asshole-proof—and I started thinking about all the old stories about vampires needing invites, or like in _Dresden_ , Harry sets up wards around his door against magical stuff—”

“Whoa, Dresden?” Dean interrupts. “When were you in Germany? And who’s Harry?”

“No, no—book series: _The Dresden Files._ Main character’s Harry; he’s a wizard, but not _that_ wizard Harry,” Charlie says with a wave of a hand. “I love Potter, but dude—Dresden rides a zombie T-Rex into battle in downtown Chicago. Freaking epic.”

Charlie gives Dean a huge grin, and even though he only understands about half of what she’s saying, he has to admit that a zombie T-Rex sounds pretty badass. Not that he plans on trading in Baby for a new war horse.

“So...threshold magic?” Sam cuts in, steering the conversation back.

“Yeah, so, I started wondering if maybe there was some truth to the stories, even if I know it’s not true about vamps naturally,” Charlie continues. “I did some research, dug up a really old spell, added an ‘intent’ element to it, and voilà.”  

Dean catches Cas’ eye-squint turn to wide understanding; Dean remains confused, but settles for just waiting for an explanation; he’s too tired to puzzle this out.

“That is some very complex spellwork,” Cas praises. “I assume that this is why our witch is unconscious, while Sam was merely barred from entry?”

Charlie beams at Cas, obviously pleased someone gets it. “Exactly.”

At this point, Claire, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, picks up the exposition torch. “Try to break in, you get stunned. Come in peace, and you just need the invite. Shoulda seen it: she got knocked on her ass so hard when she tried to break in," she adds with a chin-jut towards the witch.

Dean finally cracks a grin. “Extra security around this place with automatic asshole deterrent? Sweet. Nice job, Charlie.”

Anything to make their home safer, to keep his strange little family safer, is a win in Dean’s book.

 

Less than a half hour later finds Sam, Dean, and Claire in the bunker library starting to sift through the boxes they took from Millie’s place. Cas has relieved Charlie of guard duty, and the hacker is currently snoring away in the room they keep for her; her enthusiasm for explaining her new wards had given her a short-lived second wind, but Dean had wondered for a few seconds if he’d have to carry her back into the bunker. (“I thought you were the queen of all-night gaming sessions,” he’d teased, earning a half-hearted, “Screw you, Winchester” and a chuck on the arm.)

Most of the stuff in the box labeled “HW” is completely foreign to Dean, not having known his grandfather or grandmother very well. Sam had asked if Dean had any memories of Millie, but other than a very vague and fuzzy presence deep in the recesses of his mind, Dean doesn't remember her at all. His memories from before the fire mainly involve his mother, and his father. John’s box sits untouched on the table; Dean’s not sure he has it in him to go through that yet. But Henry’s box is like a deconstructed scrapbook: concert tickets, a few black and white photos of people Dean doesn’t recognize, a small collection of seashells, a Yankees baseball cap (Dean snorts when he sees this), a framed photo of Millie and Henry’s wedding (Dean has to admit, Gramps was a pretty dapper dude and Granny M was a looker back in the day), a yellowing envelope...

“Huh,” Dean utters as he scans the papers inside. A death certificate (fake, to the keen eye, which Dean certainly has at this point in his less than legal career) and a check stub. “Dude…”

“What?” Sam asks, and Claire looks up as well.

“Check from the Men of Letters,” Dean says excitedly, tapping the Aquarian Star logo in the upper left corner of the check. “Do you think the accounts are still around?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, they had to pay for all this—” he gestures around the room with a hand, “somehow. We should get Charlie to see if she can hunt it down.”

“Oh man, we could actually get _paid_ for this shit for once! For real! And it’s not a scam ‘cause we’re legacies.” Dean doesn’t even bother to try to keep the glee from his voice.

“Can we buy Cas a new car?” Claire jokes, and Dean grins conspiratorially in response.

They grow quiet again for a few more minutes, occasionally showing each other something of mild interest. Sam is sifting through the box he found in Millie’s closet, and he lets out a worryingly deep breath as he flips through a notebook with newspaper clippings taped in.

“Dean...check this out,” Sam says, handing over the notebook.

Dean takes it, and finds it open to a newspaper article on Dick Roman, or the Leviathan masquerading as the CEO. Careful cursive notes in blue ballpoint ink fill the margin: _Saw interview on TV. Not human — aura black, but not like Josie. Inky, not smoky._

“Auras?” he says in disbelief. Claire scoots over to look over his shoulder. “Millie was psychic?”

“Keep going,” Sam urges.

Dean turns the page and discovers his own face, and Sam’s, staring back at him. But there’s an evil glint in the eyes that makes Dean shudder inwardly; he hasn’t seen that look since the Mark of Cain. But the headline of this newspaper clipping is “MASS MURDERING SIBLING ACT TERRORIZES NATION.”

It’s the Leviathan copies of themselves, and Millie’s notes in the margins confirm their non-human status: _Auras like Dick Roman’s. But can’t be them — auras were pure as kids. What happened to them?? Possessed? Hope real Dean and Sam are safe._

And it suddenly dawns on Dean how Millie had recognized them instantly at the hospital, how she had known Cas used to be an angel, and why she’d asked if they were safe so desperately with her dying breath.

Beside him, he can feel Claire tense up, and he can’t blame her: the article and picture are pretty shocking, even when you know the truth behind it.

“It wasn’t us, Claire,” he reassures her, but the words just bounce off as the teen seems to retreat inwards. Dean starts to try again, but Sam interrupts his thoughts.

“Dean, if Millie could see auras...do you think...do you think that’s why I…?” Sam trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish for Dean to understand what he’s getting at.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I dunno, man. Maybe. I mean, who knows—our family’s been destined and fucked over from the start. Henry and Millie were probably just ‘meant to be,’” he adds, putting as much scorn into his mimicry of the Cupid’s words when they’d found out about John and Mary’s destinies.

A muscle twitches in Sam’s clenched jaw and he looks away from Dean. “Yeah, I guess.”

Without warning, Claire gets up and leaves, and Dean’s brows knit in question when he sees the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Claire?” he calls after her retreating back. “Shit,” he mutters.

Sam clears his throat before standing as well. “I’m, uh, going to relieve Cas of guard duty. Need to just…” he gives a vague gesture that Dean interprets as ‘be anywhere but here or around this stuff.’

Nodding, Dean asks, “You sure you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Claire probably needs you, though.”

Dean knows his brother isn’t really fine, but Sam is right. So, Dean gladly he takes the out, puts Sam on the back burner for the first time in...ever, and makes his way down the hall towards Claire’s room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this fic has been kinda Destiel-lite so far. As much as I love writing Destiel, sometimes the other characters' voices and stories need space (plus, if Destiel ever goes canon, I wouldn't want SPN to turn into a show about just that, so I guess my writing reflects that). But, never fear, there will be some more Dean-Cas interaction coming up. :)


	10. Not in Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credit to the writers of 10x20 for some of the dialogue.

** 2011 **

 

“Where are you, Amelia, sweetie? Claire keeps asking about you,” Gran says into the phone. From her place around the corner in the hallway, out of sight from the kitchen where her grandmother sits, Claire can’t make out her mother’s response on the other line.

And no, she  _hasn't_  been asking where her mom is, thank you very much, Gran. Mom made it pretty clear she couldn't deal with raising a daughter over a year ago when she dropped her off here. After the demons and Castiel, Amelia had become a shell of herself, and there were times that Claire felt like _she_ was the parent. A demon had hollowed out her mother, and an angel had hollowed out her family. Claire stopped asking when Mom was coming back long before she actually left.

"I know, I know. I just want you to be better and Claire needs her mother. Look, there’s something else, too.” Gran’s voice drops even lower and Claire presses up against the wall, hoping the extra inch will help her eavesdropping. “There’s been weird stories on the news. And there was a picture...Amelia, it looked like Jimmy.”

Silence for a moment, and Claire can only assume her mother is making some sort of response.

“Are you sure? Have the police…?”

This time Claire can hear a slightly raised voice from the phone, but it’s still not loud enough to distinguish words.

“No, I haven’t talked to the police, just like you said. Amelia…” Brief pause. “Fine. Do you want to talk to Claire?” An even briefer pause, and Claire’s stomach instantly clenches in the meantime; she’s not sure if she wants to talk to her mom or just run and hide. “Ok, I understand. I love y—”

A sigh and the soft click as the phone settles back into the cradle.

 

** 2015 **

 

“Claire?”

Claire stops, inwardly cursing herself for not walking faster and now being less than five feet from a nicely slammable door. She crosses her arms and turns halfway, opting to lean against the cool tile and brick of the hallway wall. Dean catches up to her and she’s reminded of when she first came to the bunker whenever Dean tried to talk to her about Cas or the Mark, how uncomfortable he looked.

Fearing tears, she stares determinedly at a wispy cobweb high up in the crease between the wall and the ceiling; it’s the type of cobweb that you never notice until you stare right at it or the light hits it at the right angle and then you start to freak out about how many _other_ cobwebs and spiders are lurking around just out of sight.

“Claire, you know that wasn’t really us, right? In the picture?” Dean asks, jumping right into the matter. “I mean, I know after Randy and everything, you probably think—”

“No, Dean, I know that wasn’t you. It was the Leviathans or whatever, right?”

From the corner of her eye, she sees Dean blink in obvious surprise.

“Charlie told me how she met you guys,” Claire shrugs.

“‘Course she did,” Dean mutters. “Ok...so, wanna tell me what’s going on, then?”

“What, because you’re a regular Dr. Phil? Free therapy sesh?” Claire finally pulls her eyes away from the ceiling to give him what she hopes is a withering look.

Dean half-turns and mumbles what Claire thinks is “Christ, I am too tired for this” before saying more clearly, “I need coffee. You comin’?”

She suspects that what Dean really wants is a whiskey or a beer, but he stalks off towards the kitchen before she can answer or comment. Reluctantly, she follows and initially resolves to just stand off to the side until Dean gives up trying to talk (and knowing him, she thinks that won’t take long), but once he gets the coffee pot going and notices her still in the doorway, he gives her his own withering look and she ditches the admittedly angsty refusal in favor of taking a seat at the table.

They don’t talk until they both have mugs in front of them, and Claire sighs before this game of chicken can go on for too long.

“I remember hearing about Castiel on the news, like Millie saw you guys in the paper,” she says finally.

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah? Let me guess—back when he thought he was God and was working ‘miracles?’”

“I didn’t know it was him, though, not until I saw the stained glass window.”

“Stained glass window?”

Claire laughs bitterly. “Yeah, some church where he killed this Fred Phelps wannabe. Changed the window to a picture of himself, trenchcoat and all.”

Dean smirks. “I musta missed the window part of that story. Woulda paid money to see that.” They both take sips from their coffee, and Dean seems to think for a moment, studying his hands, before looking up and meeting Claire’s eyes. “Cas really fucked up, but he’s not the only one who has around here.”

“No kidding,” Claire remarks as her frustration finally bubbles up to the surface, and she pushes the coffee mug away, not caring one bit about the sloshed liquid on the table. “When you guys screw up, you screw up the whole world and people like my dad die and I gotta sit home and watch while someone who looks like my dad makes it onto the five o’clock news for being the new God and I gotta try and explain to my gran that it isn’t my dad and no, I don’t know where he went or why my mom left, except that I _do_ know and I can’t tell anyone ‘cause they’ll think I’m crazy!”

She’s practically panting from her rant and the tears that threatened in the hallway finally win their battle and start coursing down her cheeks. Angrily, she swipes at them with the back of her hand and swallows hard.

Dean gets up from the table and grabs the paper towels, ripping off one and handing it to Claire, then crumpling up a few and dropping them almost haphazardly on the table to soak up the coffee.

“Claire, listen, I’m not gonna pretend I know what that was like for you. I remember hearing those stories on the news about Cas, too, and it was like a punch in the gut. But I get it, it’s not the same.” He settles back down in his chair and looks at her intently; Claire averts her gaze, hoping he’ll look away, but instead he leans forward, ducking his head a little so that he’s back in her line of sight. “Look, what happened to your dad...I’m sorry, ok? I really am. But, uh, there’s something you gotta know.”

Claire meets his eyes more directly this time and she bites her bottom lip, mostly to keep it from trembling.

“Yeah?”

“Your dad’s sacrifice was not meaningless. Yeah, he gave up his body, his...his vessel. And because he did that, Cas…” He takes in a breath. “Cas was able to save the world. The _world_. Your father’s a hero. He did not die in vain.”

“Yeah, real bang up job Cas did,” Claire huffs derisively.

“Ok, maybe not when he was playing Cas Almighty. But trust me, the dude has more than paid up for what he did. And he’s done a lot more good than bad.”

She knows this, deep down. She’s forgiven Cas, she has, but it’s impossible to forget it all. She sighs. “I know. I told him last week I forgive him. It’s just...hard sometimes. And seeing the articles and Millie’s notes? It just…”

Dean nods in understanding. “Like reopening an old wound.”

“And it’s not just Cas,” she admits quietly. “My dad _left_. My mom _left_. They _chose_ that. But they’re my parents. And I love them and I know they loved me…But sometimes...”

Dean offers a sad crooked smile. “Kid, broken families and complicated love-hate relationships with parents is what we do best 'round here. Welcome to the club.”

“And my Guidance Counselor said I didn’t do enough extracurriculars...” she jokes feebly, her voice still a bit thick and raw with emotion. Dean snorts in amusement. “Sorry about the coffee.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s just coffee. If it’d been whiskey, well...then we might’ve had a problem.”

“That’s real healthy,” she says with a sarcastically raised brow.

“Yeah, ok, _Sam_ ,” Dean snarks.

“Hey!” she scowls.

They don’t speak for another minute, but this time the quiet is far more comfortable.

“Claire, you know…” Dean starts. “...you know we’re not gonna leave, right? I know we’re not your parents, not really, but...we’re not going anywhere. It’s kind of a craptastic consolation prize of a family, but we’re here as long as you want us.”

Yeah, she knows. She doesn’t say anything in reply, though. Dean drains the rest of his coffee, and they clean up their mugs and the rest of the spill. By the sink, once the cups are in the basin, Claire wraps her arms around Dean, taking him somewhat by surprise, if the pause before he hugs her back is any indication.

She didn’t always like Dean, and they butt heads all the time, but he’s not altogether unlike the bunker: there’s so much more beneath the imposing surface and hard walls, and he’s home. This is not the home or family she ever imagined, but she thinks Dean’s wrong: it's not 'craptastic' at all.


	11. Cursed or Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised (like a bagillion chapters ago), Dean and Cas finally get some time together...eventually.

** 1991 **

 

Bill, bill, grocery store coupons… Millie sorts through the mail quickly at the table, but pauses at a plain white envelope. Puzzled but intrigued, she opens it, and her breath catches when she sees the contents. She’s still sitting there, staring at the Polaroid a few minutes later when Paul comes in, his cheeks flushed red from the cold.

“What’s wrong, Mills?” Paul asks, and the tender note in his rough voice snaps Millie back to the present.

She doesn’t respond, just blinks at him for a second, then hands him the picture. After studying the photo for a second, he flips it over and squints to read the short note; in the back of her mind, Millie wishes Paul, the stubborn man, would just go to the eye doctor and get a pair of reading glasses already. His eyes are wide, though, when he finishes reading the note and studying the picture a second time before handing it back to her.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Came in the mail. No return address but a Delaware postmark,” she says, one finger running along the edge of the picture. “It must’ve been taken in the summer...back when… But I thought he said he couldn’t find John and the boys?! I knew he was lying!”

Thankfully, she and Paul have been married long enough that he can follow the half-formed conversation. He grunts.

“He was a P.I., Millie. Not a cop. Whatever he found, he didn’t want to get involved.” Paul tucks his gloves into his back pocket and moves over to the dish strainer, taking a mug and filling it with the last of the coffee from breakfast. He leans back against the counter near the sink, a thoughtful look on his face. “Not surprised, considering.”

Millie looks at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paul shrugs. “I don’t think John had anything to do with it—or Mary—but that Samuel Campbell was into something. Guys ‘round Lawrence used to talk. I never said much to him ‘cept the one time he came to get some work done on his truck, but he was a real bastard.”  

“What do you mean, ‘into something’?” Millie asks slowly, and the last conversation she had with John comes back to her. At the time she’d thought he was just consumed with grief—and who could blame him?—but what if there was more?

Frowning into his mug before taking a sip, Paul is quiet for a minute. “Remember ol’ Carl? The postman? Well, you get a coupla beers into Carl and he’d tell anyone who’d listen about all the strange packages that’d show up at the Campbells', or the time he almost got shot by some tough looking sonofabitch while delivering mail to their place. Stories like that. Fairly certain that dry-cleaning business of Campbell’s was a front for something.”

Millie considers this for a moment, recalling how it was a joke around town about how often the dry-cleaner was closed on random days.

“Not to mention there was something funny about how Samuel and Deanna died,” Paul finishes.

The deaths of Samuel and Deanna had been gossip around Lawrence for a long while, Millie remembers. No one was ever caught or accused, and the police eventually said it was a heart attack and a burglary gone wrong. Mary had been so broken up, and it came as a surprise to no one when she and John had wed not long after, or when they named their sons after her parents.   

“So are you saying Samuel Campbell was in the mob or something? And that’s why Mary died? And why John’s on the run?” The near-hysteria pitches up her voice nearly a whole octave, and she can feel her throat tighten.

“I dunno. I’m just telling you what was said back in Lawrence. Can’t prove anything.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?!” Millie chokes out.

“Don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” Paul says somberly, though he looks somewhat cowed by Millie’s outburst. “Mills, I’m sorry.”

She takes a few deep breaths to calm herself, then looks down at the photo, at two boys who are smiling like any other boys in summer. If Paul’s right, and John and the boys are on the run from Samuel Campbell’s past—and Millie still finds it difficult to process this possibility—then no wonder the P.I. hadn’t wanted to get involved, or why John refused to leave the boys with them. They’re too easy to find. But still…

One photo isn’t enough to know they’re really safe and happy.

But it’s all she has.

 

 

** 2015 **

 

Before settling into the chair Charlie had been occupying when they arrived, Castiel had taken advantage of the witch’s still unconscious state to examine the wards and sigils placed around the room. Impressed with Charlie and Claire’s work, he had only added one more sigil—a fairly obscure Enochian ward—with a can of spray paint he found by the door, and then taken up his position as guard.

He hasn’t been here long, but the heat from earlier lingers in the musty room, and he can feel his eyelids start to droop. He takes out his phone and pulls up the crossword app; it’s an activity he finds particularly enjoyable, as it allows him to use his extensive knowledge of many subjects while staying current on pop-culture, since, as Dean and Claire are always quick to point out, Metatron’s download left much to be desired. About halfway through his third puzzle, Cas hears the long strides of Sam behind him, and he frowns, thinking it odd to be relieved of guard duty after such a relatively short time.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets as he approaches. Immediately, Castiel can tell by the tense set of Sam’s shoulders and jaw that something is wrong.

“Sam,” Cas nods and gets up from his chair. He walks over to the corner, hidden in the dusty dark, and drags out an old stool he’d found during his inspection. Sam gives a bit of smirk as he eyes the seat dubiously, but he wipes as much of the grime off as possible and sits. “Everything all right back in the bunker?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam answers distractedly, and Cas gives him a look of doubt. “Well, not really. I dunno. It’s nothing. Just needed a change of scenery.”

Cas lifts a sardonic brow, then gestures slightly around the room. “I’m not sure I see the appeal, but to each his own.”

Sam snorts a laugh.

“What?”

“When we first met you, that would’ve been a completely serious response. No sarcasm, just confusion. You’ve come along way,” Sam observes.

Castiel considers this, his eyes squinting a bit in thought. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. I’ll admit I was never known for being particularly humorous among my brethren, but you have to understand, angels and humans have very different perceptions of...everything. Humor, included.”

“Blue and orange, not black and white,” Sam agrees, though Cas has no idea what he means. Clearly this is evident on his face, because Sam takes one look at him and continues, “Most people consider something like morality to be black and white, there’s good, and there’s bad. Or a spectrum of that. But, what if someone is operating on a scale that is completely foreign to that? The values don’t match up at all. And so people call it blue and orange.”

“Ah,” Cas nods in understanding. It’s a simple, yet oddly elegant, metaphor for explaining the differences in an angel’s way of thinking compared to a human’s. “Sam, what brings you out here? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish, but you are my friend. I’d like to help if I can.”

Sam frowns and runs a hand through his hair. Cas muses inwardly how strange it is that _Dean_ is generally considered the one who is reluctant to talk, and that _Sam_ is the open one, and yet they both can be incredibly recalcitrant. Perhaps it is because Dean is often more vocal about his dislike of emotional conversations, or because Sam is usually doing the prying for information from others.

Not that Cas can say he is much better in this regard himself.

“Cas, am I cursed?”

The question is jarring in its bluntness, and Cas snaps his head in Sam’s direction. The younger Winchester is staring determinedly into the center of the room, refusing to meet Castiel’s eye.

“No,” Cas says slowly. “The witch has been unconscious since we arrived…”

“No, I don’t mean by her.” Sam sighs. “We were going through some of Millie’s stuff. Turns out she could see auras. And all I can think is when that Cupid said my parents were destined to be together, and after all Dean and I’ve been through… Am I cursed?”

Cas feels his chest tighten, and his eyes lower to the floor. “I don’t know the extent to which your fates were written in regards to all that led up to the Apocalypse, how far back the lineages were destined. But no, you are not cursed, Sam, though it may feel like it. Your soul is pure, despite all it has endured. Perhaps a little battered and beaten, but not corrupted or changed.”

Sam doesn’t give a response, and Cas doesn’t pressure one. But, he is reminded of something that Dean once told him. Granted, Dean’s words carried a far different significance than what they would mean if Castiel said them to Sam, but the underlying sentiment is the same.

“Your brother once told me, before we went to kill Dick Roman," Cas says, “that he’d rather have me, cursed or not.”

Sam looks at Cas in surprise. “He said that?”

“Yes.” Cas rubs a hand on the rough denim on his thigh absently. “Obviously, this is a different context, but I hope you know that no matter what brought you to this place in your life, whatever divine or even demonic influence—” Sam flinches. “—you are still Sam. You are still a good person. You and your brother have risen so far above whatever destiny the universe had in store for you. Team Free Will.”   

The moniker coaxes a small smile from the younger brother’s lips, and he opens them to speak, but the witch begins to stir inside the Devil’s Trap, and the two hunters stand and approach the edge of the circle.

Her eyes flutter open, and she starts suddenly when she notices the manacles and the two men before her. She glares at them defiantly as she rises to her feet, then a cruel smile twists her mouth.

“Are you two the good cops, then? I heard the other Winchester was the master interrogator.”

Cas inadvertently stiffens at the reference to Dean’s time in Hell, and beside him, he feels Sam do the same.

“What’s your name?” Sam asks, ignoring the jab. The witch just shakes her head.

“Names are power,” she shakes her head. “And I already know yours.”

“Fine,” Sam bites out. “What do you want? Who are you working with? And remember, we’re the ‘good cops.’ I can call my brother in here if we have to.”

The witch laughs outright at the threat, throwing her head back. “You won’t call him in to torture me. You think you’re the good guys.”

“Clearly you have not been following us as well as you think,” Castiel says, his voice a low and dangerous rumble. “I would not advise crossing us. I’m sure your associate Crowley told you as much.”

Her eyes narrow, and shock flashes over her face. “Like I would work with the King of Hell,” she scoffs, but Sam and Cas simply exchange a look.

“We know he told you how to find the bunker. And then he sold you out,” Cas taunts, and they are both satisfied by the fear slowly eroding her mask of haughty calm.

“My guess,” Sam says as he paces at the edge of the circle, “is that he’s hoping we’ll take each other out. Get rid of a few hunters, or knock out the Grand Coven. It’s a win-win for him.”

At the mention of the Grand Coven, the witch’s eyes dart away from Sam, and Castiel takes the opening.

“You’re not working with the Grand Coven,” he states simply, and she regards him coldly.

Putting the pieces together, Sam stops pacing and looks at the witch. “Trouble in paradise? Last we heard, you were all banding together to stop Rowena. You know they don’t like rogue witches,” Sam warns with a shrug.

“I’ve heard,” the witch admits stiffly.

“So, what, you saw the Grand Coven making a comeback, then miss out on capturing Rowena, and you thought maybe it’s time to stage a coup? Get power elsewhere? Like the Men of Letters?” Sam asks, almost to himself as he works through the chain of events.

“The Men of Letters stole our knowledge,” she spits, and it’s not difficult to hear the scornful emphasis on ‘Men’.

“Perhaps men did steal from the Grand Coven,” Cas says, “but you should probably be aware that it was two women who stopped you tonight.”

Sam gives Cas an approving half-smile while the witch seethes impotently in the Devil’s Trap.

“So, are we done? Are you going to kill me now?” she asks with as much bravado as she can muster.

Cas and Sam look to each other, and Cas shakes his head.

“We have yet to decide your fate,” he tells her.

“So get comfy,” Sam adds, sitting in the chair Cas had been in before, stretching out his long legs and crossing his ankles.

Castiel turns, but he can still feel the witch’s stare at his back. “If you are all right here, I think I should go check in with Dean. Tell him what we know.”

Sam agrees, and Cas makes his way out of the building, covering the short distance between it and the bunker at a leisurely pace, enjoying the fresh air after the stifling atmosphere inside. The night is clear, and though innumerable stars scatter the sky, Cas feels a slight pang at the knowledge of the all the stars the human eye can’t see and that he can no longer visit. His Father’s creation is truly remarkable, and Castiel sometimes laments that His most prized beings can experience so little.

His first instinct is to head to the library, but a raised voice draws him towards the kitchen. From the doorway, he can see Dean and Claire at the table, but neither see him. Claire’s face is streaked with tears, and Dean is tossing paper towels down on spilled coffee. Castiel is about to enter, ask what is wrong, but Dean’s words stop him cold.

“Claire, listen, I’m not gonna pretend I know what that was like for you. I remember hearing those stories on the news about Cas, too, and it was like a punch in the gut.”

Shrinking inward, Cas backs away from the doorway. He leans against the wall just outside, though he misses part of Dean’s speech from the hammering of his heart. By the time he can focus again, Dean is explaining how Jimmy’s death was not in vain and that Cas saved the world as a result. Bitterly, Cas thinks to himself that this is a vast overstatement and whitewashing of events, but he is nonetheless touched by Dean’s words and Claire’s eventual acceptance. He thinks of how just last week he and Claire had sat in the broken window of the factory upstairs, talking about Jimmy and Amelia and how Claire has forgiven, if not forgotten, all that Castiel has done. A moment later, Claire mentions that very conversation, and Cas feels a twist of relief and guilt in his stomach.

“Claire, you know...you know we’re not gonna leave, right?” he hears Dean tell the girl, and he is taken by the gruff tenderness in his partner’s voice. Castiel wishes he could record this moment, let Dean hear it for himself—anything to allay Dean’s constant fears about his abilities as a parental figure.

When Claire doesn’t respond, however, Cas begins to worry again. Unable to stand it any longer, and hearing the two of them begin to move about the kitchen, Cas enters the kitchen, only to find Claire flinging her arms around Dean’s middle. Dean catches his eye over the top of a blonde head, and he gives Cas a crooked grin before returning Claire’s hug. Cas feels his heart melt, and, unwilling to disturb the scene, he ducks out of the kitchen quietly.

He retreats to their bedroom, and within a minute, he hears Dean calling his name. Cas opens the door to let him know where he is, and the hunter enters a second later.

“How much did you hear?” Dean asks without preamble, green eyes searching Cas’ face worriedly.

“Not much,” Cas evades with a shrug, then becomes _very_ interested in the pictures hanging on the wall.

Dean snorts, bringing Cas’ gaze back to the man in front of him. “You’re a shitty liar.”

Cas doesn’t deny it, and frowns sadly. “Thank you, for what you said to Claire. Even if it’s not all true.”

“It _is_ true.” Dean sighs, then scrubs a hand down his face. “Cas, we are all so fucking strung out and tired right now, so this ain’t gonna be poetry...but, it’s all true. Every word I said back there. And you and Claire are solid, I promise.”

“Ok, Dean,” Cas allows. Dean reaches out, putting a hand on each shoulder, and stares intently into Castiel’s eyes.

“Hey, look at me,” he says. “Don’t fall apart on me, man. I need someone to help keep this freakshow up and running. And I’m sorry, but right now, you’re all I got.” He smiles weakly at his attempt to joke. “I just had an emotional sparring match with a teenager and I’m not sure who won.”

“You did, Dean,” Cas promises. “You were very good with her. You always are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean dismisses with obvious embarrassment. Cas decides not to press the matter.

Instead, Cas draws Dean in by the hips and kisses him chastely. Dean follows that with another kiss, this one with more heat, before they step back from each other and silently seem to agree that bed sounds like the best course of action. As Castiel pulls back the covers and slides in, he realizes he never mentioned what happened back in the outbuilding.

“Sam and I interrogated the witch,” he announces, and Dean barks a laugh.

“You’re a real mood killer, you know that? I don’t wanna hear about witches or my brother when I’m getting into bed with you.”

“I’m sorry. I just forgot until now, with everything.”

Dean sighs, then sits on the edge of the bed, half turned to Cas. “Well, lay it on me. Moment’s over, might as well get back to the case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and yeah, I'm a mood killer, too. Sorry! *shrug* 
> 
> Also, I wasn't really sure where to work in this particular flashback (or if I really needed it), so I apologize if it didn't really flow.


	12. Phone a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, but I just posted one yesterday, so I don't feel too bad. :)

**2015**

 

Cas is sleeping soundly when Dean awakens from his cat-nap. After hearing about what the witch had revealed, Dean had mutually decided with Cas that there was nothing to be done now, not without a few hours of sleep, at least.

Quietly extricating himself from the tangle of blankets and limbs resulting from their other pre-sleep activities (Cas may have ruined the moment at first, but it hadn’t taken too much effort to find it again later), Dean grabs his t-shirt, boxer briefs, and jeans from the floor, and then slips on his boots and overshirt before leaving the room. Claire and Charlie’s doors are still closed, as to be expected at this early hour. He makes his way down the hall and towards the outbuilding, where he finds Sam nearly nodding off, and the witch sitting in the middle of the trap, staring daggers at her captors.

“Changing of the guard, Sammy. Look alive,” Dean calls, cuffing his brother lightly on the back of the head. Sam grunts in annoyance, swatting away Dean’s hand ineffectively.

“Jerk,” Sam yawns.

“Bitch,” Dean replies automatically. “So, all quiet on the Western Front?”

“Yeah,” the younger Winchester shrugs. “We gotta decide what we’re gonna do with her.”

“Killing her’s always an option,” Dean suggests, as lightly as he can manage, knowing full well what his brother's reaction will be. “Won’t be the first witch we gank, won’t be the last.”

Sam grimaces at Dean’s cavalier attitude. “We’ll talk later,” Sam says. “After I crash for a while. Don’t do anything stupid. We might need her.”

Dean smirks over at the witch, who has done nothing but glare at this exchange, her arms crossed in front of her. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sammy. Go get some rest.”

“I will,” Sam agrees, stretching as he rises from the chair. “How’s Claire, by the way?”

“Fine. Rough night. Apparently she remembers seeing Godstiel on the news. The article on Honey Bunny and Pumpkin us brought it all back.”

“Shit,” Sam comments, running a hand through his hair.

“No kidding. How about you? You ok?” Dean asks, kicking himself for not asking before or asking Cas if the two had talked when they were out here earlier.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Dean can tell it’s not entirely the truth, but his brother looks a lot calmer than he did when he left the library a few hours ago. But, there are only so many therapy sessions he can hold in a day, and he figures Sam’ll probably bring it all up some other time anyway, so Dean just nods in acceptance of Sam’s response, claps him on the shoulder, and sends him on his way back to his old bedroom.

As soon as the door closes behind Sam, the witch speaks.

“So what _are_ your plans for me?” she asks in a mocking voice that sets Dean’s teeth on edge. “Afraid to kill me in cold blood?”

“Afraid? Lady, you don’t scare me in the slightest. I’ve seen real evil. You’re a box of kittens by comparison.”

The witch looks around the room, eyeing all the protection spells and wards, then holds up her manacled arms. “Yes, I’m just like a box of kittens,” she smiles evilly. She doesn’t quite have the flair of Rowena, yet Dean thinks they have a similar seductive cruelty.

But, Dean _does_ have a plan, and so her taunts and evil charms roll off him like water on a duck. Without a word, he leaves the main room, returning to the small antechamber near the entrance and pulls out his phone, hating himself for the fact that the number he wants appears in the Frequently Called list.

The call rings twice before a smarmy voice answers.

“Squirrel. How nice of you to call. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So right now, I envision two more chapters. Maybe three. Almost done!


	13. All in the Family

** 1985 **

 

He should have brought a shovel or trowel. Instead, the dirt cakes under his nails and the gravel tears at the callouses and pads of his fingers. Luckily, the ground is mostly thawed thanks to a surprisingly warm week, although his breath still clouds white against his lips.

He buries the tin box and quickly recites the Latin line that’s been echoing in his head ever since he discovered it two weeks ago. That night he’d drunk himself into a stupor, the decision of whether to go through with this or not tearing apart his mind and heart. Tonight, he is sober. And he has decided.

Three days ago was Dean’s birthday. The boy never mentioned it. What six-year-old doesn’t get excited for his birthday?

A six-year-old who has learned the hard way that his father is a broken shell of a man, apparently.

And that’s why he’s here. Because Mary would never have forgotten, even if their roles had been reversed.

And in ten years—if the legend is right and this works—they will be.  

“John Winchester, I presume,” a female voice with a Texan twang says from behind him. He turns and finds... _no_. He swallows thickly at the woman in front of him. She’s shorter than Mary, and perhaps a few years older, but they look like they could have been sisters or cousins. A thin white dress wisps around her ankles in the cold winter air, but the woman seems unaware of the temperature. She blinks and her eyes become an inky, bloody, red for a moment before returning to dark blue. A calculating smile quirks up one corner of her mouth as she regards him. “I did wonder if you would ever call.”

“You know me?” John chokes out, his eyes glued to the demon.

“Of course. You’ve been on our radar for awhile now,” she replies. She looks down at herself, as if admiring an unfamiliar view, then looks back up at John. “Do you like it? I picked her especially for you. Not my usual fare, but...”

“I want to make a deal,” John declares, forcing himself to stay on task. “You have the power to bring people back, right?”

“I do indeed,” the demon replies, taking slow, almost sauntering, steps towards him. He fights the urge to recoil. “But it all depends on whom you wish to bring back.”

“My wife. Mary Winchester. Bring her back, and in ten years you can take me.”

The demon tsks. “No, sorry, love. Can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

Smirking, the demon replies, “‘Hell’ is just it. Despite what you may think, Hell is a business, and one does not climb the corporate ladder by pissing in the boss’ cornflakes.”

“Yellow Eyes?” John grinds out, the mere thought of the demon almost enough to derail the fragile calm he’s been holding on to.

“‘Yellow Eyes’, huh? That’s what you call him? How bloody original,” the demon replies with scorn, but she pauses, scrunching up her face as though she has tasted something horrible. “Bloody,” she says again, letting the word roll over her tongue. “Hm. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in something so...American.”

John patently ignores the demon’s introspection. “Why Mary? Why does he want her dead so badly?”

“That’s the sixty-four dollar question, isn’t it?” the demon teases. “I suppose you’ll just have to ask him when you find him.” She walks away, but stops after a few steps before turning back. “And, John? Don’t bother to summon another one of us to bring her back. It won’t work.”

And with a snap, she’s gone.

White curls of air obscure his view, but it doesn’t matter—John’s eyes are brimming anyway. An almost inhuman roar rips out of his throat, and he falls to his knees, fingers bunched in his hair, nearly tearing it out.

He stays that way for what seems like ages, until his heartbeat returns to something resembling steady. His joints creak with the cold and lack of movement as he rises to his feet and makes his way back to the Impala.

Back in the motel, he finds his two boys still asleep in their respective bed or crib, right where he left them half an hour ago. Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t wake like he normally does when John leaves or returns, and John is grateful; he doesn’t know if he could face his son, knowing that he failed once more in making things right for their family.

Bottle of whiskey in hand, he eases himself into a battered kitchen chair. The pale light of the streetlight peeking between ratty curtains casts a sickly streak of orange on the table, right over his journal. A slight grimace passes over his face as the whiskey burns his already raw throat, and he flips open to latest page in the journal, where he recorded the summoning of a crossroads demon. He tears it out in a jerky motion, crumples it with a hand, and tosses it in the basket by the door.

 

 

** 2015 **

 

Hell is miserable, as to be expected. There’s a reason why Crowley avoids it as much as possible, preferring instead to hold court in his Earthside headquarters, where he is now being bored to bloody tears by data reports, projections, and quibbles from his demon minions. He’s well past the point of even pretending to have an interest in the affairs, although he must admit that he does delight in watching his staff quake in terror if he does so much as raise an eyebrow in their direction. Just to keep them on their toes, he has one particularly annoying and groveling demon dragged off for a good round of torture and killing.

Just a typical Tuesday.

His phone buzzes on the arm of his chair. Not Moose. Grinning slightly, he holds a hand up to stop the current stream of useless information about soul yields, and answers the call.

“Squirrel. How nice of you to call. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks airily.

“Need to talk, Crowley. Meet me in the outbuilding behind the bunker factory,” Dean answers brusquely.

“Fancy a chat, do you? Let me check my calendar. I might be free for coffee sometime next week,” Crowley answers flippantly, standing up from his throne and dismissing his followers with a wave of his hand.

“Now, Crowley,” Dean growls.

“You Winchesters really do find the most charming places,” Crowley says as he appears in the crumbling factory building behind Dean, who still has his phone up to his ear. The hunter spins, and the King of Hell is greeted with a typical near-snarl. “Really, Dean. You called me. The least you can do is be a decent host.”

“You’re not in a Devil’s Trap,” Dean answers coldly. “You’re welcome.”

“A gentleman’s gentleman, you are,” Crowley snarks. “So, what, apart from your ever-witty repartee, are you bringing to the table this time? Or, what trouble have you boys found yourselves in that you need rescuing from by little ol’ me?”

“Cut the crap, Crowley,” Dean snaps. “You know why you’re here—and that was a nice stunt you pulled, getting your ugly mug reported to the cops so we’d know you made a deal with her.”

“Sticks and stones, love. And fine, you caught me.” Crowley shrugs. “What can I say? I wanted a fair fight. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “I don’t know what your angle is, but you don’t do anything unless you benefit. Letting us duke it out, sure I get that, but why give us the advantage?”

“Call it unresolved mommy issues. Call it nostalgia for last summer,” Crowley answers with a vaguely dismissive wave of his hand. “Or perhaps consider that maybe there’s a reason I’m the longest-standing Big Bad you’ve come up against.”

Dean snorts. “You? Big Bad? You haven’t been a Big Bad for years.”

 _And may they continue to think that_ , Crowley smiles inwardly, while aloud he says, “Touché. In any case, we have business to discuss. Let’s skip the usual song and dance—you threaten me, I threaten you, no one ends up killing each other—and get to it. What are you offering and what do you want?”

“I’m offering her,” Dean replies with a head-jerk in the direction of what Crowley assumes is a larger room. “I’m willing to bet that whatever info she gave you is just the tip of the iceberg. Question, torture her, kill her, I don’t care.”

Crowley considers this. Yes, he had learned at least one interesting tidbit he could use as leverage against his mother should the need arise, but Ms. Good could also give him a leg up on the Grand Coven…

“And what, pray tell, would you want in return?”

“Protection, a hand’s off policy from demons.”

“Hands off? Protection?” Crowley tuts with a tease. “Being human again really has made you far less fun.”

He takes a minute to enjoy Dean’s obvious mix of guilt, embarrassment, and anger. It never ceases to amaze him how easy it is to rile up the Winchesters, Dean in particular.

A realization dawns on Crowley, though, and before Dean can make some sort of reply, he says, “This isn’t your usual cup of tea—asking for protection for yourself. What is it you _really_ want, Dean Winchester?”

The hunter’s response really should not have surprised the King at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written John's POV before; I hope it came across well.


	14. The Right Choice

** 2006 **

 

“Why, John,” the Yellow-Eyed Demon sneers, “you’re a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them.”

 

 

** 2015 **

 

Despite the other person’s obvious attempts to be quiet, Charlie still wakes when she hears a door close down the hall and the echo of boots in the hallway outside her door. She yawns and rolls over, scrabbling the nightstand to reach her phone. 4 a.m. _Frak_ , she thinks, but she rubs her eyes anyways and slowly eases herself out of bed. To be fair, 4 a.m. isn’t an unfamiliar sight to her, but usually she’s approaching it from the other side. In any case, she knows she’s not falling back to sleep anytime soon, so she ventures out into the rest of the bunker.

First stop: coffee.

If there’s one thing Charlie can count on her pseudo-brothers for—well, besides weird supernatural crap, angst, and bone-crushing hugs—it’s an ever-present supply of caffeine and alcohol in the bunker. She’s pretty sure they’d kill each other if either ran dry.

Finally, mug in hand, she meanders down to the library, where she finds a mess of pictures, trinkets, and news articles surrounding two cardboard boxes. Before she can start to examine them, though, a slip of paper on her laptop keyboard catches her eye. A check stub. With the Men of Letters logo.

Smirking and cracking her knuckles after sitting down, she delves into the obvious task one of the Winchesters set before her. Admittedly, though, she’s kind of ashamed none of them thought of this before. The Men of Letters _had_ to have been freaking loaded to build this place.

The coffee drains quickly as she works, and she doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until a fresh mug is put beside her. Charlie looks up to find Castiel, disheveled from sleep and bleary-eyed, holding his own cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” he greets.

“Oh hey, Cas.” She toasts him with the mug. “Thanks.”

“It was nothing,” he replies, then frowns. “What are you working on?”

Charlie holds up the check stub, and her mouth twists in frustration. “I tracked the account it came from, but it looks like it was emptied by someone named A. Magnus, which I’m pretty sure is short for Albertus Magnus, and I’m also pretty sure he died a couple centuries ago. Lame alias. Anyway, I can’t track the money any further than that, and I’ve looked _everywhere_. Wherever A. Magnus is holed up, I’m guessing he either spent it or has it tucked under his mattress.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “The Winchesters have never had much money—legal money, that is. We’ll get by. It would have been nice to have, though.”

“College fund for Claire,” Charlie shrugs, and Cas nods. “I’ll keep looking, though. See if I can’t track this Magnus guy down. Or maybe Sam and Dean know who he is.”

“Speaking of,” Castiel says, looking vaguely around the library. “Have you seen Dean? He was gone when I woke up.”

“No, but I heard someone get up a few hours ago. My guess is he’s still on guard duty.” Charlie grimaces and looks up guiltily at Cas. “I’m a jerk. I totally should’ve checked in with him but I got wrapped up in this.”

Cas smiles softly. “I hardly think you qualify as a ‘jerk.’”

Charlie bites the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at Castiel’s air quotes. No wonder Dean always described him to her as a “nerdy little angel.” Not that being a nerd is bad. Duh.

She stands up and stretches, twisting her back until it pops satisfactorily. “Well, should we go see how our witchy friend is doing?” Without waiting for a reply, Charlie picks up her mug and loops an arm through Castiel’s at the elbow. Castiel looks at her in mild surprise, but leads her away like a perfect gentleman, crooking his arm slightly outwards. Charlie swears he even straightens up as he walks. Castiel may not be her type at _all_ , obviously, and she’s totally not a damsel in distress, thank you very much, but who doesn’t love being treated like a princess sometimes?

Actually, screw being a princess. Charlie Bradbury is the queen.

They of course make a detour to the kitchen to get Dean some coffee as well, both agreeing that neither wants to face the wrath of Dean Winchester were they to show up with caffeine for themselves and not for him.

“Dean!” Charlie carols as they enter the outbuilding, dust motes rising as the door swings open and causing her to sneeze.

“Dean?” Castiel calls more cautiously when there is no response. Charlie shoots Cas a worried look as they walk into the main room.

The Devil’s Trap is empty. Dean is sitting in the chair, arms crossed, and Charlie does _not_ like the deadened look in his eye, nor does she like the way Castiel tenses up beside her before crossing quickly to Dean to assess for damage. Dean meets Cas’ gaze when Cas puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and crouches to eye-level.

“Are you hurt? How did she escape?” Cas asks.

Dean clears his throat uncomfortably. “She, uh, didn’t escape.”

“You let her go?!” Charlie chimes in disbelievingly. “Dude, what the hell? After all the work I did figuring out how to capture her and all the crap you gave Claire about her being super dangerous and you just _let her go?!_ ”

Looking between Charlie and Cas, Dean sighs, and answers in a single word: “Crowley.”

Castiel straightens up and his eyes narrow. Charlie is suddenly glad that Grace-free is the way to be these days because she’s pretty sure Dean would be a crater and pile of ash otherwise.

“What,” Castiel rumbles lowly and dangerously, “do you mean by ‘Crowley?’”

This time the implied air quotes are no laughing matter.

“Calm down guys,” Dean answers, the anger building in his own voice. “I made a deal and we made out on it for once. No souls or anything.”

Charlie is unconvinced, even though she has never met the King of Hell herself (not that she’s complaining), and apparently Cas shares the same thought because he follows up with, “Crowley never makes a deal that he doesn’t benefit from.”

“Trust me, I know,” Dean replies darkly. “He wanted the witch as leverage against the Grand Coven and his mother, so I got leverage back.”

“Leverage?” Charlie asks slowly, trying to puzzle together what it is Dean means.

For some reason, Dean looks embarrassed and guilty, but he swallows and answers resolutely, “Yeah. I made sure he can’t use Claire as leverage. No demon touches her. I, uh, asked for Ben, too. I know he doesn’t know who I am, but Crowley used him before and…” He fixes Cas in an almost challenging stare. “The witch would’ve just died anyway, unless you wanted me to torture her. So yeah, I let Crowley have her.”

“Dean…” Cas says quietly, and Charlie feels a wave of relief as she sees Cas’ hand go back to Dean’s shoulder, then run down his arm. Dean visibly relaxes at the touch, and the two give each other one of those soulful stares. She’s fairly confident that if she weren’t present, this would go from G to NC-17 pretty damn fast.

Charlie takes this as her cue to leave anyway, though.

Back in the bunker, she finds Sam and Claire both up and in the kitchen, Sam working through a bowl of cereal and fruit, Claire munching on cold pizza from their dinner last night.

“Soooo, the witch is gone,” she announces to the room. Claire looks up sharply and Sam immediately bolts up from the table; Charlie wishes she’d prefaced her news with an indication that this isn’t a bad thing. “Whoa, Sam. It’s cool. I think. Dean made a deal with Crowley, which ok, doesn’t sound great, but…”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says from behind her, where he stands with Dean.

“Uh huh,” Sam huffs. “How the hell is making a deal with _Crowley_ ‘fine’?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, snarkily and angrily by the looks of it— _typical brothers_ , Charlie inwardly groans—but she answers for him, “He made a deal so that Crowley gets the witch and Claire can’t get attacked by demons.”

“Wh-what?” Claire stutters, her cheeks flushing. Sam’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head for a second until his far more familiar calculating look settles over his features.

“I meant what I said last night,” Dean tells Claire gruffly, and only gives a minute headshake to Charlie’s questioning raised eyebrow. She sighs, hating not knowing or having to wait until later to ask. Because she _will_ ask, because that’s what nosy little sisters are for.

Claire smiles, but Charlie’s pretty sure it’s not a trick of the light that makes the girl’s eyes look a little watery.

“That bastard,” Sam says out of nowhere, and everyone looks at him. “Crowley,” he replies by way of explanation, though the response does little more than earn him unanimous _Obviously. Care to elaborate?_ looks. He sighs. “I bet the deal only lasts while he’s in power, right?”

“I guess,” Dean answers uncomfortably.

“So, now Crowley has one more reason to hold over our heads for not killing him,” Sam explains tiredly.

“Goddammit, Sammy. Can’t we just enjoy a good thing while it lasts?” Dean complains. “No one’s dead, everyone’s safe for fucking once, and let’s face it, we weren’t planning on ganking Crowley anytime soon. He’s been right for a while: we won’t kill him because who knows what psychopath would take his place.”

“So, Crowley isn’t a psychopath?” Cas asks dryly.

“Not helping, Cas,” Dean grumbles.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas offers. “I think you made the right choice.”

Dean looks up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“I thought I made that abundantly clear before,” Charlie thinks she hears Cas murmur, and _la la la la I don’t want to know_ runs through Charlie’s head _._ Dean grins.

“So, that’s it? Everything’s cool?” Claire asks from the table. “Wait, so does that mean I don’t need the anti-possession tattoo? It’s just for decoration?”

“I suppose…” Castiel answers slowly, tearing his eyes away from Dean. Charlie shoots Sam a look, wondering if the younger Winchester has guessed where this conversation is heading. Sam gives a small smirk.

“So, if I have this tattoo that’s just decoration, that means I could get some more to round it out…”

“No,” Dean answers sternly, and Charlie can’t help but burst out laughing at the absolute dad-ness of her friend.

Claire just smiles slyly. “I’m eighteen. I don’t need permission. Not that that stopped me before...” she adds, holding out her arm where several stars and a rose are inked onto her forearm.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out. “You know what? I’m not dealing with this shit right now. I’m making pancakes, you’re all going to eat them, and you’ll all fucking enjoy them, and then I’m sleeping for like three days.”

“Dean,” Sam says, looking down at his bowl, “I’m not really—”

“Sammy, I don’t care if you just had a whole Thanksgiving dinner. I’m making pancakes.”

“I’m in,” Charlie adds. “Because I’m a good sibling.” She sticks her tongue out at Sam, who gives her a short-lived bitchface before he sits back down again at the table, where Castiel and Charlie join him and Claire. Dean rolls his eyes but gets to work pulling out ingredients and a mixing bowl.

By the end of breakfast, even Sam admits pancakes were the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: the A. Magnus who emptied the MoL account is Cuthbert Sinclair, the guy that got kicked out of the MoL that we see in 9x16 "Blade Runners" and 10x19 "The Werther Project"; that's how he funded his magical collection.


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting two chapters at once, so make sure you didn't miss Ch. 14!

** 2015 **

 

Everything is hazy, but eventually she hears voices, but from afar or as if she is underwater. Slowly, she becomes vaguely aware of people around her, and she feels jostled, even though she’s fairly certain that she shouldn’t actually feel anything.

She’s pretty sure that she’s dead.

Snatches of conversation— _”Picture looks like his house, though.” “Millie was a psychic?”_ —and items sorted through, rifled through, like parts of _her_ are being searched and appraised.

Finally, she’s aware that she’s in a large, almost cavernous library, where Dean and Sam and a girl she’s never seen before sit sifting through boxes she knows were once hers.

She fades out again.

 

Raised voices. She thinks she hears the girl on the verge of tears, but she can’t follow the voice. She tries to cross the library, but she never makes it to the door.

 

It’s night. Well, she thinks it is—it’s impossible to tell with no windows. She stands for a minute by her boxes, by her last possessions, gathering her strength. She thinks that last time she tried to do too much too quickly.

Concentrating, she tries to pick up the first thing small thing she finds on the table, which turns out to be the check stub from when Henry disappeared. Her first attempts do nothing, and her hand just swishes through the table. Finally, after several tries, she grasps it triumphantly. But, footsteps from the hallway make her lose her concentration and the slip of paper floats down to the table, landing on the keyboard of a computer surrounded by energy drinks and snack wrappers. She sighs, but watches interestedly as another woman she doesn’t recognize picks up the check, studies it, and begins tapping away on the laptop.

“Hello?” she tries to say, but she vanishes before she can get a second try.

 

Raised voices again, and again from down the hallway. This time, they sound far happier. Before trying to leave the library again, she surveys the table, her eyes landing on her journal. For some reason it calls to her more than any of the other items.

 _All right_ , she thinks. _You did it with the one piece of paper. You can do it with the journal._

Breathing deeply, more out of reflex and as an attempt to concentrate than from out of any need for oxygen, she reaches forward, smiling broadly when her hand clasps the binding. Journal in hand, she makes her way in the direction of the voices.

Sam, and Dean, and the angel, and the two women are all sitting at a table, a syrupy plate in front of each. She watches how Dean’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he laughs, how the angel rests a hand on Dean’s knee, how the redhead playfully swats Sam on the arm, how Sam simply laughs in reply, how the blonde girl gives the angel a fond and reassuring look when he silently asks her a million questions in one expression.

They _are_ happy. Finally.

  
She fades out, for what she knows is the last time, the journal clattering to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Le fin. 
> 
> Finally! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around on this journey. This one was a beast to write!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments keep me writing (and writing faster!).


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